Invading Afghanistan
by starrysummernights
Summary: When John's girlfriend becomes fed up with his obvious love of Sherlock and breaks up with him, John must decide the best way to proceed- how to tell Sherlock he loves him and wants more from their relationship? Will the consulting detective even feel the same way? Eventual Johnlock, rating may go up in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone! This is my first ever fanfic so please be kind. I would really appreciate reviews :D Any mistakes are my own. I do not own Sherlock, etc, etc.**

"Oh, Ohhhh, _Je-sus_, Oh, God, SHERLOCK!"

Miranda froze in the middle of coming down from her pleasant post-orgasmic haze and closed her eyes in the darkness. He had done it again, said that name _again_. Breathing deeply in through her nose, she tried to determine just what she was feeling as John Hamish Watson gently pulled out and kissed her cheek with heart rending affection.

_Sad_, yes_, disappointed_, _angry_ (a little), _furious_ (still simmering, not quite there yet). Testing the emotional waters again, Miranda found _expectation_ and realized that she had not truly been surprised. And, if she were honest, she was angrier with herself than with John Watson, though she did think the man should be more self-aware. He was a typical British male, however, and she supposed this allowed him some slack. It was, however, the outside of enough when the man deluded himself so effectually that he screamed his male flat-mate's name when he came.

The first time he had cried "Sherlock" in the throes of his orgasm, he had explained to Miranda about his "mental, consulting detective flat-mate" who had involved him on a case that had lasted for weeks. His mind, he insisted, was still partly on the case and so on Sherlock, it was not a personal thing, he had definitely _not been thinking_ of Sherlock. Miranda had been skeptical, but John's behavior since that night months ago had been so sweet, so kind and loving, that she had decided that it was just as he said and let it go. The second time it happened, she was less understanding, more skeptical of the same reason given, but she had so wanted to love and be loved by the former army doctor, she had allowed her heart to rule her head and now, when the third time had happened, Miranda found that she could blame no one so much as herself. All the signs had been there. She had refused to see them for what they were.

It was obvious that John was not about to address the issue, seemingly unaware that he had done anything wrong, (that or attempting to brush the whole thing under the rug and hope Miranda had not noticed), so she felt it was her place to bring it up.

"You did it again," she sighed and felt John tense beside her. The fact that she had not had to explicitly explain to him what he had done proved that he had been attempting to just ignore it and hope it would go away. He cleared his throat nervously and his hand sought hers out amongst the covers.

"Sorry, darling, it was accidental. We've been on this case-"

"No, John. Just…please, _don't_ anymore. I don't believe you when you say you only called his name because of a case." Miranda gently extricated her hand from his and sat up, turning on the bedside lamp but refusing to turn and look at him. "I think we both know the reason for it."

There was an awkward silence as John thought this through. "You think I-what? Imagine you are my flat-mate or some rubbish? Because I assure you I don't. It was just a small slip-up, it could happen to anyone-"

"_John_." Miranda's steady voice cut through his excuses and she finally looked at him. He was so handsome that even now, knowing she was about to break up with him, she felt her heart flutter in her chest. Rugged, cute, dangerous, loving, short, imposing…John Hamish Watson was a girl's dream man…and he was in secretly desperately in love with his flat-mate.

"John, regular people don't call out their male flat-mate's name in the middle of sex. I don't think it was a case. I think you're…in love with him."

"No." John threw back the covers and groped for his jeans and shirt that had, earlier in the evening, been happily discarded on the floor. "I am not in love with Sherlock Holmes."

It was at that moment that the chime of John's cell phone was heard, muffled slightly from the pocket of his jeans, and Miranda watched as a blush crawled up John's neck and into his cheeks. He pointedly did not look at the message but they both knew who it was from.

John finished getting dressed and Miranda watched, a numbness spreading inside her chest as he finished buttoning his shirt and stood, shoulders slumped, with his back to her. This was it, this was the end of their relationship. Miranda was comforted, and very much angered at the same time, that she had been an ideal girlfriend- but really one could only be expected take so much. It was one thing for Sherlock Holmes to constantly be texting John during their dates, and on four memorable occasions actually _turn up_ halfway through in the middle of a case and involve John. It was too much for John to be in love with him.

"I never wanted to hurt you." John said, his voice low and heavy and Miranda's heart broke.

"I know," she whispered, smiling when he finally turned around to look at her, his face tortured and she felt that hers mirrored his. "We can't help who we fall in love with, John."

He stared back at her, haunted and in pain, and Miranda wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off his face and promise him anything. Promise him that she loved him, that it was ok, he was not really in love with his flat-mate, he would not go through an identity crisis over his new sexuality- he loved her and they could build a solid life together. But she could not lie to him, even to make him happy.

"I never wanted to fall in love with him. I never even realized I was…and I don't fucking like it. I don't- _didn't_ think I was gay, that's just not who I was…and now? Now, all of a sudden, I'm supposed to be gay and be in love with Sherlock?" his voice was rising with incredulity and a note of hysteria.

"I would help you dress for the Gay Pride Parade. I'm not sure they would allow those jumpers to be a part." Miranda said softly, her eyes dancing with laughter and John could not help but smile back at her, feeling some of the tension leaving his shoulders. This was why he had been attracted to Miranda. Yes, she was beautiful with raven curls falling down her back and plump lips and a body that was the result of daily trips to the gym. Miranda was one of the most beautiful women John had ever seen, and been lucky enough to date…but she was also one of the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful women John had ever been fortunate enough to meet. She was always able to joke him out of a bad mood- bad moods usually inspired by Sherlock and involved body parts in the fridge. Now, with her heart obviously breaking, she was still trying to help John. He was humbled. He obviously did not deserve her. No, he deserved a mental, self-described sociopath who called him an idiot, refused to do the shopping, placed himself and John in life-threatening situations with regularity, and made John's heart beat faster with just a look. He sighed. _Bloody hell._

"This doesn't seem the sort of conversation for the bedroom. Cup of tea?"

John nodded and watched as Miranda folded her robe around her and walked ahead of him into her dimly lit kitchen. Wasn't he attracted to Miranda? Yes, of course, he found her incredibly sexy…didn't he? He shook himself, mentally and physically, and watched as Miranda gracefully swayed around her kitchen making tea. Yes, she was very pretty, he was attracted to her. John frowned, and then conjured up a thought of Sherlock, naked, his head thrown back as John licked his way down his long, graceful neck, their two bodies grinding together in a perfect rhythm- _bloody hell_. John cut that thought off quickly and positioned himself behind the bar so Miranda would not notice the slight bulge in his jeans that should definitely _not_ be there 30 minutes after having sex with her.

He let out a shaky breath and met Miranda's eyes over the counter as she slid a steaming mug of tea, prepared just the way he liked it, across to him. She smiled, and then leaned against the counter opposite him. An awkward silence descended as they sipped their tea, then John cleared his throat, nervous but knowing he had to say this.

"Miranda…I just want you to know that…if _this_ hadn't happened…I couldn't have imagined another woman I would have wanted to spend the rest of my life with. You are fantastic, and the guy you marry will be the luckiest guy in the world." _It's not you, it's me_ was the phrase that hung in the air and John felt that truer words had never been more appropriate.

Miranda smiled a little lop-sided. She may be kind and still in love with John but she had some pride, and she was damned if she would tell him that she could not have imagined another man she would want to spend the rest of her life with. Right now, the pain was fresh, but it was not the first time a relationship had ended, and Miranda knew with certainty that she would find someone else. That was part of the adventure of living, right?

"I know and John…listen, this may be over but…if you ever need someone to talk to," she shrugged, the awkwardness of extending friendship to the guy who had just fucked her senseless seemed ridiculous, "I don't care to help."

John grinned and shook his head. "You are amazing. Why aren't you angry with me and making a scene? Throwing plates and crying and shouting? You have every right, you know."

The corner of Miranda's mouth turned up. "Get that a lot, do you?"

They both laughed, the tension broken, and Miranda straightened to empty her mug into the sink. "I'll probably cry over you, John, and maybe do some shouting but my plates are too expensive to go about breaking them over you." She tossed him a sad smile over her shoulder. "But I love you. I love you and I want you to be happy. And I am convinced that you would not be happy with me. I don't want you to wake up one day and realize that you're not happy and regret…_That_, John Watson, would be worse than anything else in the world."

They stayed silent for a few minutes, neither making eye contact, until John collected himself and decided that it was time to go. Shrugging on his coat, he exhaled shakily, "Now comes the hard part."

Miranda laughed. "This wasn't hard?"

John sighed and smiled back at the woman he thought he could have spent the rest of his life with. "No, this was hard. This was excruciatingly hard. No, the worst is yet to come. Telling Sherlock I love him will be the hardest damn thing I have ever done in my entire life."

And you invaded Afghanistan, a deep voice whispered to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone and thanks to those who have followed and favorited this story! I hope you like the new chapter and I am busily working on the next one which should be up sometime in the next day or two. Reviews are greatly appreciated as this is my first ever fanfic. All mistakes are my own as I have no beta or Brit-picker. :) Enjoy.**

John walked all the way back from Miranda's flat, berating himself for falling in love with Sherlock and simultaneously working up his courage to confront Sherlock with this love as soon as he walked in the door. He was determined to get this all out in the open, to confess how he felt and let the chips fall where they would. He felt sick that this may ruin his friendship with the consulting detective but... John felt stupid for harboring a small hope that, instead of staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head, Sherlock would smile and tell him that he felt exactly the same way. Music would play, bells would ring, and they would kiss as petals drifted down from the ceiling. John scowled and rolled his eyes. _Not bloody likely_.

When John got back to 221B however, it was to find an empty flat. He looked around, nonplussed, then finally sighed and flung himself into his armchair, closing his eyes and trying to forget the night's debacle with Miranda. He had not expected Sherlock to be gone and not be coming back for God knew when. John grimaced as he could feel the courage he had worked up on the walk ebbing away. He was not a coward, he was soldier. He had invaded Afghanistan, had stitched wounds and amputated in a field hospital with steady nerves. Why the hell then was it so hard for him to tell his flat-mate that he was in love with him? His very _male_ flat-mate he was in love with him, he reminded himself.

Well, he _is_ a sociopath, whispered the deep voice again but John shook his head. He didn't believe that Sherlock was really a sociopath. He had seen too much evidence to the contrary that the man had feelings, though they were buried much more deeply than most people's. The question that plagued John was whether or not Sherlock had _romantic_ feelings, _sexual_ feelings and towards which gender were they directed? If male, John felt that he had a good shot but if female…but then, John himself had thought he was perfectly straight until he was gobsmacked with the truth. He was still reeling, truth be told, but this felt…_right_. But, oh, god, what if Sherlock did not have these feelings at all?

John remembered the first time he had been aware of an attraction to Sherlock. It had been at that very first meeting at Bart's, their eyes had met across the room when John had offered his mobile to the young man and John had felt winded, as if he had been punched in the stomach. The slim figure in the expensively tailored suit had taken his phone and told him his life story, and John had been hooked. There was mystery to Sherlock Holmes, adventure, the thrill of the unknown and the spice of danger. The man was intelligent, loyal, brave, on occasion reckless, and capable of deep love for those who were fortunate enough to worm their way into his heart. John had managed to convince himself that these traits were what kept him by platonically Sherlock's side, but there had always been something else, small moments that John kept locked away, that stole John's breath whenever they happened.

It may be at a crime scene, when Sherlock was stalking around with his pocket magnifier and making deductions, that John's heart would turn over and swell with such affection that John was hard put to keep the goofy grin off his face. Or sometimes when they were chasing after a fugitive in the icy cold, their eyes would meet and, without either saying a word, John would know what Sherlock wanted him to do and vice versa. Then there were the times they would sit, side by side on the couch and watch John's favorite crap shows and Sherlock would make acidic comments about everyone. John would finally be beside himself with laughter and would catch Sherlock with the cutest, shyest smile on his face, as if he were proud that he made John laugh as he did. Those were the moments that John had found himself wanting to kiss Sherlock, make the taller man moan against his lips- but he had forcibly pushed those thoughts aside.

He had dreamed about Sherlock, lust filled dreams that John had tried to explain away to himself, with ears burning and cock throbbing, as too many sweets before bedtime, stress after grueling hours in the surgery and then chasing after Sherlock, too much time had elapsed since he had last shagged. Something, anything, than face the truth that the idea of his male friend stretched out on top of him, naked except for his blue scarf, had the ability to make him harder than a diamond. John admired Sherlock, respected him, was frustrated with him, lusted for him…and was in love with him. John groaned and threw his head back against the back of the chair. Well, there was no hope for it. Into battle we go, soldier.

John was still trying to decide what exactly he would say to Sherlock when he heard the front door open and slam, then bounding footsteps up the stairs, followed by the door bursting open and revealing one tall, excited consulting detective whose bright eyes lighted on John at once and frowned, then smiled. The smile took John's breath away and he realized that he had obviously been deluding himself for some time.

"Where have you been?" John asked as Sherlock swirled his coat off and onto the corner of the door.

"Lestrade texted me hours ago about a murder case. Woman- middle aged, married, schoolteacher, found stabbed to death in a hotel room. It was obvious that she had actually been hacked to death with a hatchet as evidenced by the distinct markings the blade had left as it cut into her bones. Also, there is a very obvious blood spatter pattern when one uses a hatchet to murder someone versus any regular knife one could procure. Hotel room was under her name, however she had told no one she had plans to be anywhere but at home after work today. Her husband had called to report her missing after she had failed to return home and the school reported that she had arrived, taught, and left at her usual time. Most unusual, however I deduced that she had been having a long-time affair with the principal of the school where she worked and the affair had turned sour when she found she was pregnant. He was, of course, nowhere to be found but when Lestrade _finally_ allowed me to search his office, I found all I needed to know." Sherlock revealed his deductions about the case scarcely without drawing breath and John, as usual, found himself enraptured at the genius of his deductions.

"It was obvious he drove a blue car, a Saab, so once I found that the hatchet was nicely tucked in the trunk, still bloody, ready for the police to inspect. I left them to it, assuming they can do something as trivial as blood tests correctly. Why are you back? I thought you were at Miranda's."

Sherlock now turned his piercing eyes to study and, no doubt, deduce the answer from John and he suddenly felt very exposed. He heaved himself out of his chair and walked past Sherlock to the kitchen, attempting to create a distraction. He was not ready just yet.

"Hungry? You're not on a case now so I assume you'll eat something? There's some leftover risotto we can split."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise which John decided to take for assent and took the risotto out of the fridge, determinedly _not_ inspecting the bloody baggies to either side of the sealed container and declining (for the present) to comment on the new severed head Sherlock had placed in the fridge that very night. Steeling himself, knowing that Sherlock would more than likely deduce the answer to John's presence at the flat by the way he combed his hair or how John leaned just slightly to the left instead of the right (John mentally sighed at how easy Sherlock could read him), John began.

"Miranda and I broke up."

"What? Why?" Sherlock leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen and felt genuinely confused. He did not like the feeling. He had monitored John's relationship with Miranda and it had seemed to be going disgustingly well. John was clearly "in love" with her and she was all the time claiming his time and smiling at him in that sickly sweet way that John seemed to like. Sherlock had seen less disgusting sights at a crime scene, but he kept this thought to himself. It seemed the sort of thing that would make John angry if verbalized.

John shrugged and looked uncomfortable, his eyes shifting away from Sherlock's, immediately piquing Sherlock's interest. He scanned the rest of John, eyes deducing: _relaxed, languid movements_- the night had ended in sexual intercourse then_, tense set to the shoulders, eyebrows drawn slightly together_- uneasy, perhaps due to the ending of the relationship, _eyes refusing to meet Sherlock's_- something had happened in relation to Sherlock perhaps to cause the break up, _hands steady_- under pressure of some sort- where would that come in?- perhaps he was going to attempt to tell Sherlock that he needed to give he and his next girlfriend more space. Dull, boring, predictable. Doubtful that would be a reason of stress. John had shouted this sentiment more times that Sherlock cared to remember. He generally ignored him.

Sherlock could not fathom why John would actually _want_ to go to some trivial movie and dinner with a boring, vacuous female who giggled and batted her eyelashes and laughed in a horribly fake way at his jokes. Equally baffling, Sherlock could not understand why John would want to become so physically _close_ to these women who smelled strongly of perfume and were just too…wrong. John was amazing, loyal, and though not as smart as himself, John was also clever. Why would be debase himself for these ordinary women? Sherlock was aware, though, that if he spoke any of these thoughts it would just make John angry and defensive, so he repressed them. He took a deep breath.

"Just leave it for tonight, Sherlock." John said, his voice tired, and he scrubbed at his face before quickly turning away to check on the slowly revolving risotto in the microwave, mercifully free of human remains.

Sherlock remained where he stood and thought. It did not take many seconds for him to realize that this may have to do with feelings. His immediate reaction was to walk away, engage himself in something else, and leave John to it. But remembering John's face as he asked Sherlock to leave it, he felt his heart prick. It was the duty of a good friend to help whenever their mate felt badly. Surely an unexpected break-up fell into that category. Sherlock made a disgusted face then walked into the kitchen where John was now leaning against the kitchen table, watching the revolving plate of risotto as if it were the most fascinating sight in the world.

"What happened with Miranda? I thought you two were…fine." Sherlock winced at the awkward word choice but really, feelings were not his area.

John shrugged and continued to watch the food warm up. "I think we were before I cocked it all up. No, scratch that, we weren't fine. We have never been fine, not from the start. Miranda is a great woman but she made me realize I have just been deluding myself for the past 6 months."

An awkward silence descended on the kitchen. Sherlock had no clue what to say and John looked so…lost. In a panic he thought of running from the room to fetch Mrs. Hudson but then thought perhaps John would not want their landlady to know of the break-up. People were sensitive about things like that, or so he had been told. He cleared his throat and John finally looked at him. His blue eyes were tired, yes, but they also looked at Sherlock…calculatingly? Analyzing?

"What?" Sherlock asked, frowning as he tried to read John's expression and come up with a reason for it. Interestingly, John blushed and looked away.

"She thinks I'm in love with you."

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "So does half of Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner and her married ones, Angelo, the annoying man down at Tesco you keep telling me about, my brother, Lestrade, now Miranda…shall I go on? Why does the world persist in being so decidedly ignorant and dull? Boring. It's for the best, John, that things ended. If that was her opinion, a very stupid and predictable one, then her brain was not on par with yours and you can do better." Sherlock was very proud of his speech. He had complimented John, praised his brain in a roundabout way, and pointed out to him the foolishness of continuing his relationship with Miranda. He almost expected John to look up at him with amazement shining in his eyes and declare "Brilliant" and return to his normal self. He was _not_ expecting what John said next.

"What if her opinion was the correct one?" John asked in a low voice, squarely meeting Sherlock's eyes and refusing to allow himself to look away.

Sherlock froze, his expression completely blank as he stared at John and John stared right back. He knew what was going on in Sherlock's brain, he was being deduced. Sherlock was deciding whether or not John was trying to make a joke or was serious. Months and months of data were being re-examined, John's actions were being broken down in minutiae, and Sherlock was wading through emotions and feelings in an attempt to discover the truth. John could feel his heart pounding, his mouth was dry, and he felt his knees weaken. This was how it felt to be totally exposed to someone, he thought frantically. When you were unsure of the reaction of the person you were exposing yourself to, it was horrible.

Sherlock turned away and started to walk out of the kitchen, then turned around and opened his mouth but no words came out. He then turned away again but thought better of it and faced John once more, who was watching his friend's conundrum with dread in his eyes.

"I can deduce that you are unwell from the sudden break-up, John. There is no need to go prattling away with ridiculous notions of being in love with me when we both know that is not true. I suggest you eat something then go to bed and sleep and everything will be fine in the morning. I won't mention this again."

He then whirled around and almost sprinted to his bedroom. John heard the door slam and the click of the lock being engaged. Behind him, the microwave dinged but he was suddenly not very hungry anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed this story! I am floored by your support. :) Please please please review! I love reviews. They are my crack.**

Despite what seemingly _everyone_ thought, Sherlock was not a virgin. He did not care what everyone thought, mainly because everyone was an idiot, but he had some experience with sexual matters and the idea of doing any of _those things_ with John made him feel wrong and dirty. It felt like the worst sort of betrayal of their apparent love and he had a hard time imagining that John would actually want to do those specific, soulless acts with him. If John thought he was in love with Sherlock- what did he want? Did he want Sherlock to reciprocate or was John content to merely state the fact and let their relationship stay the way it was? Did Sherlock _romantically_ love John Hamish Watson? Could he be in a romantic relationship with John? What would John expect that to entail? Sherlock's mind was clamoring for answers. He needed more data.

After he heard John go up to his bedroom, Sherlock waited exactly 45 minutes before quietly walking out to the main room and commandeering John's laptop, his own violin, and his mobile then equally quietly going back to his bedroom. The thought of facing John right now was enough to make Sherlock's stomach twist itself in knots. He needed time to think, he needed more data about the case that was now clearly labeled in his Mind Palace as" John Watson, friend, lover(?)." First, he brought up a search engine and began researching romantic love, relationships, deducing what was normal and what was not. Sherlock's theory that people in a romantic relationship had sexual relations regularly was confirmed, as he had known it would be, and his heart sank.

The idea of doing those things with John was just…wrong. Sherlock had had 4 sexual encounters in his life and they were permanently etched in a room in his Mind Palace. The first had been when he was 14 with a 16 year old girl whose name he could not remember. They had kissed and from the start it had felt wrong, wrong, wrong but Sherlock had kept going, determined to discover why, what was so off-putting. Perhaps he should place his hands here? Well, she seemed to like that, unaware that he was on the verge of retching from their kisses. Finally, when she had brushed her fingers against his crotch, only to discover he was not as excited to be there as she was, she had pulled away with shock and it had occurred to him- perhaps he liked men? His next two encounters had been experiments with two different boys when he was a few years older and the results had been…better. If Sherlock could turn his mind off and concentrate only on the sensations that were being evoked in his body, he was fine, but when he saw who he was with, when presented with the opportunity of reciprocating, he found himself wanting to retch again.

Sherlock still had vivid sensory memories of feeling dirty, feeling invaded and defiled by his last sexual experiment. This had been in his 20s, when he had decided to try something different, but the results had been the same. Afterwards, he had immediately showered, scrubbing as hard as he could to get the man's scent and sweat off of his body. He still shuddered at the memory. And John wanted to do that? Would he want to jump right into that or work his way up to it? Would John want to start with kissing first, something Sherlock had never been enthusiastic about either?

Then Sherlock thought about kissing John, backing him up against the doorway of the flat and pressing his lips against his short doctor's. _Oh._ His heartbeat had spiked and Sherlock's vivid imagination was now on a pleasant trip contemplating kissing John, of all the _places_ there was where he could kiss John. He found himself shivering in anticipation and mentally shook himself. This was not the time to get emotional and _giddy_, he thought disgustedly. Kissing was fine then, but John was a sexual man, that much was obvious from tonight, and he would probably expect sex from Sherlock.

But would he? John had just confessed to him that he loved him, and when one person loved another one they made sacrifices for the other person. Perhaps, if he offered John the opportunity to love him with the expectation that Sherlock would love him back, John would skip all the sexual acts. John would still be allowed to kiss him, perhaps touch him in a nonsexual manner. Sherlock began to play his violin, a soothing melody, as he thought of how he would approach John the next morning.

* * *

John expected to be awake the whole night in wretched misery, but was surprised when he opened his eyes the next morning and realized he had slept the night away. He felt miserable, afraid he had ruined his friendship with Sherlock but, if truth be told, there was a part of him that was utterly relieved that he had finally confessed both to himself and Sherlock his true feelings. He felt as if a demon had been exorcised and there was a slight smile on his face as he showered and dressed.

John's stomach felt very queasy, though, as he descended the stairs into the main room, glancing at Sherlock's bedroom door which was still closed. Bright sunshine flooded the flat and John sighed deeply, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead of him that day as he began to prepare breakfast. Suddenly, Sherlock's bedroom door banged open and the man himself appeared in the kitchen doorway, clad in his blue dressing gown and an old shirt and pajama bottoms. John's heart began beating faster but he smiled. We really must stop having conversations in the kitchen, he thought as Sherlock stared at him intently.

"You confessed last night to believing yourself in love with me, yes or no?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and serious.

"Yes." John said, without hesitation, lifting his chin. In for a penny, in for a pound. It had taken him almost a year to work up to this point, he would not shy away from it now, even if he felt like he was about to have an aneurism.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, studying John, and John stared right back, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, if you still persist in this ridiculous notion that you are in love with me I have a test. I have been up all night researching this and gathering more data and I have come to a very sound and factual hypothesis, one that by passes trivial emotions and is based in _fact_." Sherlock declared. He looked so proud of himself that John felt like smiling if the situation were not turning so horribly awkward.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked cautiously, dreading the answer but curious nonetheless.

"You believe you are in love with me. The common signs of attraction are increased heart rate when in close proximity to the person, and dilated pupils. I will therefore come closer to you in order to gauge these reactions for myself. That will be the initial test. The next phase of the test, if more data is needed, is for me to press my lips against your face in order to gauge further reactions." Sherlock was rambling on, clearly he had spent a great deal of time thinking of this. Looking at him, John realized that he had obviously not slept all night nor had he eaten anything. He filed this away for later nagging.

"Ok," John said, slowly. "So let me get this right. You're going to place yourself close to me, then kiss my cheek in order to determine if my heart rate goes up and my pupils dilate?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, isn't that what I just said?" he asked, annoyed. John sighed.

"Ok, fine, great. Sounds like a good test. Where do you want to do this? Bedroom?" he watched as Sherlock's eyes shifted quickly away from his and zoomed about the kitchen.

"No, no, no. It must be in a neutral setting. No bedrooms. The kitchen will do nicely. Now, stand there against the counter, that's right, lean against it. Now, relax. This test won't hurt."

John was not reassured.

He watched as Sherlock breathed in and out in an apparent attempt to steady himself then pinned John to the counter with a look and stepped closer. Knowing what Sherlock was about to do, that he may actually feel those plump lips on his cheek in a moment, John immediately felt his heart rate increase in anticipation. He closed his eyes, unable to watch Sherlock advance across the kitchen towards him and keep his emotions in check. It seemed that repressing them for so long had been a bad idea as they were now running rampant about his body with a mind of their own.

Sherlock finally stopped when there was barely an inch of space between the two men's bodies, then murmured, "Look at me, John."

And John had never been able to deny Sherlock anything. His insides still quivering from hearing that deep voice vibrating so close to him, John opened his eyes and looked into Sherlock's eyes. He jumped when he felt Sherlock's hand sliding around his wrist, and at the contact he felt his heart stutter, then begin a rapid rhythm that John was sure was embarrassingly evident at his pulse points without Sherlock touching him. His breathing stuttered out, weak and shaky, and his head spun as if he were not getting enough oxygen.

Sherlock's eyes widened and John felt his stomach bottom out. Fuck, he was going to scare him away. He was supposed to be Sherlock's friend, his best friend, his only friend and- _holy fuck_, what was Sherlock doing now? He was lowering his head, his eyes never leaving John's the whole time, and when his lips hovered barely a centimeter above John's, he murmured, "I need more data."

The first brush of Sherlock's lips was electric and John gasped at the contact, his eyes closing without his being aware of it. It was a chaste kiss, but John's body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm. He felt as if his lungs were about to explode, his heart was probably in cardiac arrest, and oh, god no- his pants were suddenly tighter than they had previously been. And Sherlock, now pressing himself against John's body, was feeling all of it.

"Sherlock," John began, pulling his head slightly back from the kiss, but Sherlock's hand was suddenly at the back of his head, urging him back and John gave himself to the kiss, allowing himself to follow Sherlock's lead. At the first brush of Sherlock's tongue against his closed lips, John stiffened and Sherlock pulled back slightly.

"Data, John, I need more data." He whispered, his lips ghosting over John's who parted his without another protest. Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth, tangling with his, and eliciting a low moan from John who blushed profusely. This did not stop him from gently licking at Sherlock's lips and getting rewarded with a hitch in the taller man's breathing.

This time, the kiss turned into something hotter, something much more erotic that sent John's blood pumping through his veins. He was aware of Sherlock's lean body pressed against every inch of himself and his hard cock was throbbing in his jeans, pressed against Sherlock's thigh. One of Sherlock's hands ran up and down John's back, pressing him closer, while the other sifted through his hair and directed the kiss expertly. John was only able to grip Sherlock's dressing gown and hold on for dear life.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John said brokenly, and this seemed to flip a switch for Sherlock who suddenly pulled away and began straightening his clothing, clearing his throat, and avoiding eye contact. John was left clutching onto the counter to keep himself upright, his heart thundering, and his mouth gasping for air, staring in disbelief at the detective.

"That was enough data." Sherlock said, striding back into the main room, leaving a winded doctor very bewildered indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**I am overwhelmed with the positive response I have received for this fanfic! I want to thank you all so much for sticking with me and reading and please please please review! :) Thanks to all who favorite and follow! You are my inspiration! I hope to post more in the next two days.**

**In my mind, it seems very much unlike Sherlock to throw himself into a relationship without first laying out some rules. Poor John. But as we know, readers, John is not like ordinary men and is, of course, understanding of Sherlock :)  
**

When John finally managed to gain feeling back into his legs, he shakily followed Sherlock into the main room where the young man was already pacing frenetically, his blue dressing gown flying behind him like a cape. John followed his path with his eyes but Sherlock did not seem to notice John existed, he was so caught up in his thoughts. John fervently hoped they were good thoughts as he sank down into his armchair and continued watching Sherlock. At least Sherlock could not deny that John had feelings for him. The evidence John had provided Sherlock in the kitchen had been embarrassing, direct, and honest.

Minutes ticked by, with John growing edgier and more convinced that Sherlock would reject him, would not reciprocate his feelings. Finally, Sherlock stopped pacing and cleared his throat. A decision had been reached and John's heart began to beat in double-time.

"After analyzing the results from the experiment in the kitchen, it is obvious that you were correct in your assumption that you have feelings for me. I suppose Miranda was not entirely as stupid as she appeared to be."

John frowned at this scathing comment about Miranda. "Just because she was not as clever as you does not mean she was entirely stupid, Sherlock. She was very smart for, you know, a normal person."

Sherlock snorted. "Normal people are dull, John." He cleared his throat nervously again.

"I have decided that I…have feelings for you, John." Sherlock said awkwardly, not meeting John's eyes but staring at a fixed point somewhere above the fireplace. "I am not sure if these _feelings_ are _romantic_ in nature or not, it is still too early to tell and more research must be done to reach a conclusion."

John winced as Sherlock said "feelings" and "romantic" with such obvious disdain but then his face broke into a wide smile as he took in what else Sherlock had been saying. "You…have feelings for me?"

"Yes, obviously." The man replied shortly, beginning his pacing again, acutely aware that John was beaming at him as if Sherlock had just presented him with the best gift in the world. It made his insides squirm uncomfortably. "I assume you will want us to be in a relationship?"

"Yes, that would be the ideal situation. If- it that's what you want?" John asked, trying to keep the hope from showing in his voice but utterly failing

Sherlock declined to answer that. He admitted to himself that he selfishly liked the idea of having John all to himself, of no longer having to compete with the endless parade of women in John's life. It gave him an odd satisfaction to think of John always by his side, never very far away, and forever looking to him with amazement in his eyes. It was the other, messier, aspects of a relationship that Sherlock did not like. He may as well talk this out with John and let him know what he would be agreeing to if he agreed to be in a relationship with Sherlock.

Sherlock sat opposite John in his own armchair and met his gaze. "If we are to be in a romantically inclined relationship I have a few rules. Do you agree to abide by them?"

"What are they?" John asked, still scarcely able to believe his ears that he was sitting in the middle of the flat discussing a relationship with Sherlock. It seemed too much, all of it was too good. John felt as if it would be yanked away at the last moment, all of it having been a big joke.

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin and regarded John. He should have known John was too smart to blindly agree to terms and conditions of a relationship without first knowing what those terms and conditions were. Especially with Sherlock, who unflinchingly admitted to using his intellect to manipulate John as the situation arose. Still, he had been forced to try. He doubted John would agree to go along with his rules once he learned of them. Sherlock wondered why this gave him pain.

"The kissing is fine. We can do that as much as you want, though when I am on a case I must ask you to refrain as it would distract me from the Work. I…don't want to do more than that. I don't want you to touch me sexually nor do I want you to expect me to touch you in that way. Sexual relations are not something I am interested in or want. I want you to be aware of this because I am not going to change my mind. Do not agree to my terms expecting me to change. I won't. If you agree to be in a relationship with me you must know this. As long as you adhere to that rule, we can be in a romantic relationship."

John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He felt as if he had been offered the keys to a sweet shop and then told he could not eat anything once he was inside. He seriously considered Sherlock's request. Could he keep his hands to himself? If sex was not something Sherlock wanted, would John be able to refrain from pressuring Sherlock into changing his mind and saying yes? These were not flattering questions to ask himself but they were honest ones. After that heated but brief kiss in the kitchen, John was very sure that he would enjoy anything Sherlock was up for…but if he only wanted to kiss and never go further…how long until John spontaneously combusted from the pressure?

John really looked at the man in front of him. This was what he wanted, this man right in front of him whose expression was blank, his eyes shrewdly regarding John. He expects me to say no, to refuse, John realized. He wanted Sherlock in any way that he was allowed to have him…and if that meant no sex, well…John remembered his high school wanking days. It would be fine. He was concerned, though, with what Sherlock's rule implied.

"Are you willing to negotiate?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. I do not want to experiment any further with sexual relations, John. I-"

"No, _no_, that's not what I meant. If that is really how you feel I won't pressure you into having sex with me. I will accept your conditions. I just…I was wondering what you classified as sexual touching. I was wondering, uh…if you would object to um, cuddling and that sort of thing?" John said this last part in a rush and blushed as one of Sherlock's eyebrows rose.

"_Cuddling and that sort of thing_?" Sherlock reiterated his voice low and almost dripping with sarcasm. "What is '_that sort of thing_,' John?"

Damn you, Sherlock, for making me say this aloud, John thought, but then he supposed it would be better to have this spelled neatly out than assume Sherlock was ok with something and do something wrong. John was horribly sure that Sherlock would make fun of him, though.

"Cuddling, like, being on the couch together, my arms around you, not anywhere near your, ah, _groin area_, just wrapped around you, like an extended hug. My head on your shoulder or the other way round, our bodies…close to each other. Holding hands."

Sherlock mentally pictured doing those things with John. It evoked a tolerable feeling, even if he felt it was a somewhat bizarre and silly way to act. No doubt John was used to acting this way with his girlfriends. This thought sobered Sherlock. If those vapid females could cuddle with John, he could as well. He could be better at cuddling than they had ever hoped to be. He would cuddle with John so well John would not even miss having sex, would realize it was completely pointless and unnecessary. Besides, if John was honestly willing to accept Sherlock's condition of not having sex, couldn't Sherlock do this for John, if this was something John really wanted? Would that mean he was in love with John, since people in love sacrificed for the person they were in love with?

"Would you want to hold hands in public?" Sherlock had a sudden horrible vision of he and John holding hands in front of Lestrade and all of Scotland Yard. His stomach dipped unpleasantly.

John smiled at him, understanding. "No, not unless you want to. Tell you what. I'll let you initiate the hand holding and the cuddling, ok? That way you'll be more comfortable with it?"

Sherlock felt utterly relieved and uncomfortably stupid. Of course John, wonderful, patient John, would agree to whatever outrageous demands Sherlock made, would still love him and stand by him. Would give him the space he thought he needed and not push. This was _John_, the man who had lived with him for almost a year and _was still here_. No matter how much he complained about the violin playing and the body parts and the shopping… A much more cynical side of Sherlock's mind, however, could not be silenced. He is probably thinking that you will change your mind about the sex, he's probably imagining it right now and thinking about getting a leg over, it snarked in his ear.

"I'm not going to change my mind about the sex, John." Sherlock said, harshly, and watched John's eyes go wide in surprise.

"I know, Sherlock_, I get it_. I just agreed to whatever you want. I'm not going to push you or make you feel bad about it."

"Ok. Good." Sherlock said, fidgeting in his chair. "Thank you." He propelled himself up and into the kitchen. John could hear the definite bangs of a microscope being set on the table, the clink of petri dishes being retrieved from god knew where, and the metallic clink of medical instruments being set on the table.

Life, it seemed, as going back to the way it always was…except this time, there was something very different. This time, John was grinning like an idiot in his armchair at the thought of finally being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock had only half his mind bent on the task in front of him. The other half was busily calculating how much time needed to pass before he kissed John again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello Everyone! Here we are again… Sorry this has taken me so long to update. I believe the rating may go up to "M" in the next chapter or the one after that due to tasteful (I strive to achieve) sex scenes. I hope this does not offend- anyone?**

The dead man was sprawled on his back, lifeless green eyes staring unseeingly into the sky, his face tinged grey. John winced, looking at him, and wished that whoever had murdered him had been considerate enough to allow him to keep his clothes, or at least had dressed him before dumping the body in the middle of the forest. The man was a very large, older gentleman and there was something very pathetic in his exposed body and flaccid penis that made John want to turn away and give the man some privacy. John was not the only person there, however, and right now more people were looking at the dead man naked than had looked at him naked and alive in the whole course of his life.

Sherlock was among them, bent at a 90 degree angle, studying the ground through his pocket magnifier and ignoring the skeptical looks directed at him by Sergeant Donovan. Lestrade stood beside John, attempting to make conversation about…well, John was not entirely sure because he was only hearing every other word. He was staring at Sherlock and thinking and remembering, and he knew this was dangerous. Especially at a crime scene.

It had been a little over a week since their Kiss in the Kitchen and John was still having heart palpitations whenever he remembered it. It did not help that his mind was obsessed with what had occurred and now revisited the experience in graphic detail in his dreams almost every night. It also did not help that his mind helpfully theorized as to what would have happened had their kiss continued, had Sherlock just happened to be wearing less clothing….if John had just happened to push him against the kitchen table…

John shook his head to clear away the thoughts and focused back on the crime scene. Seemingly random body dump in the middle of the park, police were stumped. Sherlock was now examining the man's hands and fingers, running a fine pick underneath the nails and dropping thing into an evidence baggy. He straightened and Lestrade and John walked over.

"Well?" Lestrade asked, his breath showing in the cold air. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his large coat and his brilliant red scarf almost covered his mouth and ears. "What have you found? And you know that's evidence. You can't just take that away with you."

Sherlock frowned. "His wife murdered him. He died of asphyxiation, a plastic bag wrapped about his head and secured with silver tape. He was driven here and his clothes were removed here as well, not at the crime scene. You can see the scuffs around in the leaves where the person was struggling to remove his clothing. He is a big man, the person disposing of the body was small. They were also wearing red lipstick and flat shoes, shoes with glitter on them, there are small patches of that here…and here. You'll want to get that documented before it blows away."

"Red lipstick?" Lestrade echoed, after examining the ground for the glitter remains and shaking his head.

"Yes, obviously, she kissed him goodbye and then attempted, after he was dead, to remove the traces but there is still the smallest of patches at the very corner of his mouth on the right side. You're looking for a young woman, his mistress was young but it's the equally young wife who turned murderer. She will be in possession of bright red lipstick, flats with silver glitter covering them, and the dead man's wedding ring."

"The wedding ring?" Lestrade asked, looking back at the dead man, whose left hand ring finger still showed the deep traces left from a wedding ring.

"Yes, the killer took the ring from his hand." Sherlock sounded very annoyed. "A memento of the crime, a way to remember him, or throw suspicion onto the mistress. Also, the woman in question will be wearing and have a fairly large bottle of designer hand lotion. I have seen this kind before and there were traces underneath the man's fingernails. He did not struggle with the woman who killed him, he knew her, trusted her until the very last. He was using the lotion himself, considering that the lotion was under the nails of the right hand rather than the left, he had spent some time masturbating with it. The lotion remains are still fresh, indicating that he had been doing this in his own home- mistresses usually do those sort of services for the men, don't they, but wives are a different matter- so he was near the wife at the time of his murder. All signs indicate the wife killed him."

"Amazing," John said, frowning and slightly disturbed at the fingernail remains. He was glad Sherlock was wearing gloves.

"But why? Where's the motivation in killing him?"

Sherlock thrust the evidence bag at Lestrade and strode away, pulling his gloves off as he went, sweeping past the officers who were gathered. "The wife has put out an all alert on her husband, will be crying when you arrive, and be inconsolable when you inform her that he is dead. I wouldn't feel too badly for her. You can solve motivation once you arrive, I'm sure. That's enough for you to be going on with. Come along, John."

"Dull, boring. Why does everyone persist in being so _stupid_, John? Lestrade did not need me for this case! I took it apart within minutes. Anderson could have found half of that evidence- someone with no training at all could have found all of it! It's elementary stuff!" Sherlock fumed as he and John briskly walked back across the park, leaving the police to finish sorting out the murder and interview the wife.

"At least he gave you a case. Those have been pretty thin on the ground as of late." John reminded him, puffing slightly to keep up with Sherlock's angry strides. At least the activity was making the blood pump in his veins, warming him from the inside out. Looking up at the sky, he was sure it would snow in the next 24 hours and John felt excitement lurch in his chest. He loved the snow. Sneaking a glance at the angry consulting detective beside him who was now petulantly hailing a cab, John began planning an epic snowball fight for the following day.

* * *

Sherlock was distracted and this made him feel like yelling at someone, anyone, just to give vent to his frustrations. It had been 10 days since Sherlock had kissed John. 240 hours and 56 minutes since Sherlock had kissed his doctor in the kitchen of their flat and he did not understand why John had not kissed him again. John had been very specific. Sherlock was to initiate all cuddles and hand-holding and that meant, he assumed, that John would initiate the snogging. It seemed logical, considering that John would probably want their relationship to be an equal partnership and Sherlock felt that this was also a sacrifice he could make for John. It seemed, however, that John did not plan on kissing Sherlock anymore. Oh, he _looked _at Sherlock a lot, sneaking in glances and staring at him when he thought Sherlock was not aware. Sherlock, after waiting the first few days to see how John would act, began to worry- had John changed his mind?- and began pouting at the lack of kisses. Sherlock had been forcibly refraining himself from initiating the cuddles and hand-holding he knew John wanted.

When the cab pulled up to 221B, Sherlock glumly followed behind John, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, sulking with everything he had. He was following John up the stairs when John suddenly stopped and abruptly turned to face him. Sherlock looked up in surprise and opened his mouth to inquire-

John barely brushed his lips against Sherlock's and was rewarded for his bravery by a growl and six plus feet of consulting detective pressing him back against the wall, kissing him voraciously. It took John only a brief few seconds to marshal a response. He threaded his hands through Sherlock's curly, black hair and tipped the taller man's face to the side, taking control of the kiss and swinging Sherlock's body around so he was now pressed against the wall. The low groan from Sherlock was more than enough encouragement for John to dip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and suck suggestively at his tongue. Sherlock bucked his hips against John in time with his sucks and clutched at his back, making John squirm pleasantly.

Sherlock nipped at John's lips, tongue following behind his teeth to soothe the smarting flesh, and then brief kisses to make John's head fuzzy and lust-filled. Sherlock's own brain was in hyper drive, cataloguing every response John made beneath his hands and lips, analyzing, deducing. This was so much _fun_. His senses full of everything John-related, the way he smelled, tasted, the sounds he made, the little moans at the back of his throat. It was delicious, it-

"Well, I can see I have come at an inconvenient time."

A bucket of ice water would not have been as effective as the sound of that voice at killing Sherlock's desire. The two of them jerked apart, breathing embarrassingly heavy, their lips swollen and, in John's case, slightly bleeding, to stare down at the tall man below them, leaning nonchalantly on his umbrella.

* * *

**Oh dear, I do seem to like putting Sherlock and John in awkward situations. I believe that is a pattern with me...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh, Mycroft, you are so horrible! I loved everyone's response to my last chapter! :D I just could not resist.** **I hope to have the next chapter up in the next 24 hours. It is already written and now I am working on editing, etc. Any mistakes in this one are my own and I blush with shame at them.**

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded coldly, his hands steepled under his chin, steadily holding his brother's amused eyes. He would face down Mycroft and his obvious amusement at finding his younger brother snogging John on the stairs. Sherlock refused to allow his body to blush at the memory.

"I should not think I needed a reason to come see my little brother. It was a good thing I stopped by when I did, I think. We all know you make mistakes when you are so very bored. And casework has been…_uninspiring_, lately, yes?" Mycroft smirked at Sherlock, his eyes gleaming, leaning on his umbrella with his legs crossed in front of the fireplace.

"How's the diet? During this cold weather you seem to be putting on pounds like a bear does when it hibernates."

Mycroft's smirk vanished and he flicked his eyes slightly to make sure John was still exiling himself to the kitchen on the feeble grounds of making tea. "You and the good doctor seem to be more than…_friends,_ lately."

"That is none of your business, Mycroft." Sherlock replied coldly, his eyes also checking that John was not within hearing range.

"I am worried, that is all. I would hate to see you carelessly destroy such a good thing in your life."

"You worry is, as ever, misplaced and unwanted, Mycroft. Why are you really here? Not to issue brotherly advice of a romantic nature, I think." Sherlock said savagely.

Mycroft looked satisfied about something. "As a matter of fact, I have a case for you."

Sherlock's immediate refusal was forestalled by John's entrance with tea and blushes, refusing to meet Mycroft's eyes even when he handed him his tea. Mycroft thanked John in warm, knowing tones and seemed amused when John's blush deepened. He then began telling Sherlock about the case. A missing heir in Australia, believed foul play was involved; son to a top "associate" of Mycroft's who had called in a favor to get Sherlock on the case.

As Mycroft continued about the case, Sherlock was only half paying attention. He was watching John who was blowing on his tea, his lips pursed provocatively. He watched as John winced slightly when the hot tea touched his ravaged lips and John looked up in time to see Sherlock's smug grin flit across his face before it was concealed. It made heat bloom in John's stomach and he felt another blush spread across his face. Bastard. Both of them were bastards.

"I will send Anthea round with the file if you're interested."

"I'm not. I am too busy at present to take the case. Good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock dismissed him, picking up John's laptop and attempting to break the password, ignoring his brother who still stood before him.

"_Sherlock_, this is something of a delicate matter, requiring your attention. I promise you, you won't be bored with this case. We both know you do not have a case at the present time. The only interest you have right now is snogging your blogger." Mycroft said testily.

John spit tea across the living room, earning him a withering look from Sherlock who could not entirely keep the lightest of blushes from his cheeks. He sat straighter in his chair and held his head erect, the perfect picture of offended dignity.

"That is not the only interest I currently have, Mycroft. I will take your case. Now leave and send in your minion."

Mycroft, smirking at having played his brother so well, bowed to them both and took his leave. It was not until he heard the front door shut that John relaxed and put his face in his hand, laughing slightly.

"That was embarrassing. Did anyone ever tell you your brother has crap timing and is a right bastard? Sherlock?" John looked over to the still silent and frozen detective. He seemed lost in thought but John disregarded this, thinking his mind was already on the case. Sherlock may hate to take cases from Mycroft but they invariably were entertaining and tested the limits of Sherlock's genius. He smiled at the detective fondly and rose, gathering up the tea things.

"Book us a flight to Australia tonight, John. We'll leave as soon as possible. I leave the other arrangements to you." Sherlock said, his voice sharper than normal.

John turned. "I can't get that much time off from the surgery, Sherlock. Not this week. It's flu season, you know. We're full up and-"

"I can't go without you, John." Sherlock said flatly, his voice brooking no opposition. "If Mycroft forced me into accepting his case, then the least you can do is be at my side while I solve it."

"I didn't see much forcing taking place. Go then. You'll have fun, save yourself from boredom. There's nothing new or exciting going on here right now. Nothing that won't wake til you get back." Was it Sherlock's imagination or had John just winked at him? "I can't lose this job, Sherlock. It's bad enough that I take off early and come in late for working on cases with you. I can't lose weeks at a time."

"It would only be one week, John. I'm sure they do not need you that badly. I need you more."

This statement almost made John change his mind, almost. He wanted to go with Sherlock, he knew he would be worried if he were not there with the deranged consulting detective, but he also knew Sherlock could take care of himself and…If John were honest with himself, he felt that he needed a little time to clear his head away from Sherlock. In the last two weeks, John had gone through some radical changes- breaking up with Miranda, admitting to himself he had homosexual tendencies (was that the correct term for it? John was frustrated he did not even know how to identify himself), deciding to be in a relationship with Sherlock, those kisses, both on the stairs and in the kitchen. John's head was spinning and he felt that he needed to step back, just briefly, and put himself together again.

"You'll be fine without me," John smiled and hesitantly walked back to where Sherlock still sat, hands steepled as he looked up at John. John tentatively reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips and Sherlock tilted his head further back and closed his eyes. John bent forward and kissed him, slowly and sweetly, an apology for the earlier embarrassment of Mycroft and for not going with him to Australia. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and tugged at John's arms and legs, maneuvering him until John was straddling Sherlock's lap in the chair, his chest pressed tightly against his.

"What are you doing?" John asked, his breath hitching as Sherlock's hands pressed him closer and closer, never relenting from the kiss. Sherlock hummed low in his throat and John shivered.

"Cuddling."

When John had said "cuddling" he had never thought this would be the definition Sherlock would come up with, especially given Sherlock's "no sexual touching" rule. To John, this was a definite lead up to sexual touching. Hell, in a way it _was_ sexual touching of a sort since his hardening cock was jammed against Sherlock's stomach, but the detective had not deduced that yet, or else he was ignoring it. John managed to put some distance between his crotch and Sherlock and ordered his body not to press back against Sherlock no matter what. Only then did John allow himself to fall into the kiss.

He kissed and licked his way from Sherlock's lips to his jaw and there John bit and licked, careful to leave no marks. Sherlock clutched him tightly, his breathing heavy, and John smiled before he stuck out his tongue and flicked Sherlock's ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and gently biting down. The body underneath him bucked upwards, Sherlock's spine arched.

"_John_," he whispered, his voice low and throaty, sending delicious chills down John's spine. Sherlock's mind was stuttering along in fits and bursts, cataloging, processing, then going offline, especially when John did something like _that_. Now John was licking his way down Sherlock's neck and he had never known how sensitive it was. Each lick seemed connected to his groin and, for someone who declared to have mastery over his transport, Sherlock was finding himself unaccountably aroused. He did not have time to analyze why this was because John chose that moment to gently suck at a particular spot on his neck and Sherlock's mind went blank again and he clutched at John's hips, pulling him closer and whimpering, thrusting his own hips upwards, unaware of what he was doing in that moment. All he could think of was John continuing to do exactly what he was currently doing.

"_Jesus_," John gasped, pulling away and staring down at Sherlock in lust-filled confusion.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pulling on John's hips to bring him back closer and resume that endlessly fascinating sucking he had been doing. John shook his head though and pulled himself away from Sherlock.

"We have to stop." His voice was husky and low and Sherlock realized he had never heard a more erotic sound before. He kept a firm grip on John's hips, refusing to release him, and raised himself up, straining his neck upwards, to kiss John again, swirling his tongue into his mouth. He found John's tongue and, remembering what John had done to him earlier, began sucking on it.

John's moan sounded painful and his hands clutched Sherlock's shoulders so hard he was sure he would have bruises the next day. For some reason, the idea of John marking him in such a way thrilled Sherlock and he sucked slightly harder. John groaned again and his hips stuttered forward in shaky thrusts.

"Yoohoo, boys! There's a package downstairs for you. It looks important."

Sherlock and John broke apart, their faces flushed, and Sherlock studied John from such close proximity. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing was harsh, and his face had a slightly strained and embarrassed look that Sherlock could not remember ever seeing before. He let John climb shakily off him and he stood up after him, shooting his cuffs and straightening his suit while John stood to the side, looking slightly disheveled and confused, attempting to regulate his breathing.

"You, um, you go see what it is. I'll just…I'll just be upstairs." John's face was flushed bright red and he turned around before Sherlock could say another word or deduce anything more about his current state.


	7. Chapter 7

**I want to first say that I am in no way homophobic or uncomfortable with the topic. Obviously, that is not the case or I would not be writing boys having sex with boys fanfiction. John's thoughts, in relation to the question of his sexuality, are not a reflection on my views, etc. I am writing what I believe would go through his head when confronted with a situation he had not thought himself to ever be in. I do not mean to offend anyone. :D**

**Secondly, OMG THANKS SO MUCH for liking and following my story! I love hearing from everyone so please review and let me know how I am doing. I had to bring Miranda back in this chapter because I just love her so much. She is sweet and I always hate reading about horrible women with cutting remarks. Women are not always like that and I like the fact that John has someone besides Sherlock to confide in. Enjoy!**

* * *

John was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, or that might have been due to the frigid cold wind that blew flakes of snow into dreamlike whirls and spirals. John loved walking through the snow, the sharp feeling of breathing in the cold air in his chest, expelling that air and watching it drift in clouds in front of his face, the stinging of snow hitting his reddened cheeks, the crunch of newly fallen snow under his boots. He thought wistfully of his now postponed snowball fight with Sherlock and giggled, imagining the look on his friend's- no_, boyfriend's_ face- if and when he threw a snowball at him. John shook his head. It was taking some getting used to, this new relationship.

Since Sherlock was away, John was taking some time to get used to this new development in his life. He had never expected to find himself in a relationship with a man and he felt uneasy about it. How did he not know his own self? He had begun playing a little game with himself whenever he was away from Sherlock- it was too dangerous to play in front of Sherlock- to see if he had any homosexual tendencies. He found a man, and tried to imagine kissing or having sex with him and decide if those images aroused him. So far, the answer was a definite no and this disturbed John. Did this mean he was _not_ gay? He thought about Sherlock, about undressing him and licking every inch of his body (not that he would ever get the chance to, as per Sherlock's rules)- and _yes_, that told him he was gay. Gay for Sherlock? Of course, it made sense that if Sherlock turned someone gay that person would then only be gay for him. There was so much ego in Sherlock John was sure it affected everyone around him. He smiled affectionately.

John was just turning to head back to Baker Street when he caught sight of a familiar sheath of curly black hair cascading from beneath a bright red toque . The bright red peacoat confirmed who it was and he debated with himself for only a second before shouting.

"Miranda! Hey!"

She turned, shopping bags clutched in her arms, and looked for who was calling her. When she saw John, her face lit up and she started walking back to where he was.

"John! How are you?" her cheeks and nose were red from the cold and she looked stunning. John was surprised not to feel a beat of desire for her, no instant lust, no longing. He instantly filed this away to investigate later.

"Good, I'm good, just enjoying this snow. Been doing shopping?"

"Yeah," she grinned and jostled her bags. "Nothing but junk and empty calories. Tonight I'm pigging out and enjoying Christmas specials on the telly. I love snow! It makes me feel like a kid again!" her laugh was carefree and joyous and John found himself grinning along with her.

He laughed, shedding the worry that had been plaguing him since Sherlock had gone away. Miranda was watching him keenly, taking in every detail and her easy smile slipped off her face like melting ice as she studied him. It was nothing close to Sherlock's all-seeing and all-knowing eyes that could tell John's life story, but she obviously saw something because she frowned.

"Do you, I don't know, want to get a coffee or something?" concern was evident in her voice as she continued to study John. John cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, unsure. "_Just coffee_, John. I'm not throwing myself at you or anything. You just look like you could use someone to talk to."

"Sure, why not?"

The café was almost completely deserted, the snow keeping all but the most intrepid of customers in the warmth of their houses. John and Miranda ordered, then sat in a cozy nook near the frosty windows and sipped their mugs of coffee, watching the snow fall and catching up like old friends. John told her about the latest goings on at work and Miranda filled him in on her mother's latest obsession with jazz. John felt calm settling over him, secure in the familiar, as he and Miranda continued talking. Finally, after all other avenues of conversation had been exhausted, Miranda sighed and John knew what was coming.

"John, I think this has been the longest time we have ever spent together without Sherlock somehow inserting himself into the scene. How… how are things with Sherlock?"

John glanced at her but could only see genuine concern on his behalf. He felt a bit guilty thinking that Miranda would be happy that things with Sherlock were a bit rocky. John sighed and looked so defeated that, despite herself, Miranda's heart went out to him. "John? What is it?"

"I'm just…confused. I never thought I would be in love with a man, especially Sherlock and…I don't know. I'm trying to figure things out, trying to figure myself out. I'm all in knots, and up is down and…"John sighed and shook his head. "Things are just rocky, it's the beginning and it's hard and…" he trailed off, looking out the window at the swirling snow. It had been so peaceful only minutes ago. Now it seemed chaotic and choking.

"Just enjoy yourself, John." Miranda said quietly, sliding her hand over the table to touch his tentatively, a comforting gesture and not in the least sexual. "I know it's somewhat bizarre to take advice from your ex-girlfriend on the topic of your new _boyfriend_ but…just enjoy it, John. Don't overthink it, don't overanalyze it, just enjoy. You seemed so much happier earlier. Laugh, love, be free. _Be happy_. Such gifts are not granted to everyone, and we never know for how long we are allowed to keep them when they are granted." Miranda smiled at him, and John felt something hard and ugly inside him, something that had been hurting him for weeks, unclench. She was right. He should stop worrying about things and just enjoy his time with Sherlock.

So what if he had sexual feelings for Sherlock? So what if those feelings made him gay? He was not trying to find other men, he only wanted Sherlock. If he had feelings for Sherlock, and he wanted Sherlock, and Sherlock obviously seemed to want him, then what was the problem? It was not as if he cared what other people thought or saw when they looked at them. Sherlock made him happy- frustrated him, made him so angry he saw red, called him an idiot constantly, tricked him, lied to him, cared for him… John shook his head and smiled slightly. Miranda smiled back.

"It is bizarre taking advice from you on Sherlock. Thanks, though. _Really_. I'm sorry for bringing you into this but..if you ever need anything, just call." John squeezed Miranda's hand then retrieved his own. "How are you doing, Miranda?"

She smiled wryly at him. "All my plates are still intact, John." Then she laughed, that rich throaty sound that compelled John to laugh with her- just like Sherlock's laugh always did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and support. I hope you enjoy the latest chapter! I have decided to up the rating to "M" in order to make myself feel more comfortable. I am trying not to be too graphic but,well...some things occur. On to the story!**

* * *

Sherlock hailed a cab from the airport and folded himself into the backseat, hands drumming on his thighs, unable to wait until he saw John again. The case had taken a whole week, 5 more days than it should have and Sherlock blamed himself. It had not been a case worth his time, had ended unsatisfactorily, and he was angry at Mycroft for dragging him away from London, piquing his interest, then failing to deliver. He was also mad at himself for the delay in getting back. He had blamed John for 3 days as the reason he could not concentrate on the case, solve it, and return to London as he had kept replaying their kiss in the flat over and over on a loop in his head. He had to eventually concede, however, that he himself was the reason he could not concentrate. This had made him angrier and he was quite sure he would not be welcome back to Australia in the near future.

He had lost control with John that last day, it had not taken him more than a few seconds after John had retreated upstairs to realize that and when he had, Sherlock had been angry with himself. He had given John rules, to which John was adhering and Sherlock was the one who was breaking, even though he knew he shouldn't. Obviously, kissing John was pleasurable, more so than Sherlock had originally thought, but he had told John he wanted to go no further and he meant that. It was…nice, what he had with John. He didn't want to mess that up with _unbearable_ sexual relations and then have to look at John the next day. Sherlock did not want to feel disgusted by John, bitter towards him, as he felt he would be if they consummated the physical side of their relationship. It was for the best to keep himself at a distance, as he had originally meant.

Sherlock had therefore steeled himself, chastising himself since he was supposed to be master of his own transport, and when John had come downstairs, looking embarrassed but slightly more relaxed, Sherlock had made no notice of him but had continued going through the Australia case file. He had ignored John the next day and then, that evening as he was preparing to leave, John had reached out a hand and taken his gloved one, looked into his eyes, smiled, and kissed him briefly.

"Be safe," he had said and Sherlock had frozen, some unnamed and uncomfortable emotion rising up inside him. He did not like it. It made him feel exposed, unsure, and unprepared and he had merely looked at John, his expression distant and cold, unable to respond.

"I know you can take care of yourself," John had chuckled, not aware that Sherlock was in a quandary before him. "Just…don't be reckless. I'm waiting you to come back, you know."

And that had been a wonderful promise. It had stayed with Sherlock while he rode to the airport, stayed with him during the interminable flight, and stayed with him tenaciously throughout the ordeal of a case. Now, as the cab slowly navigated the heavy city traffic, Sherlock found himself anxious to be back at Baker Street and see John. John had said he would be waiting for him when he came back, and Sherlock was positive he would be.

He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door, prepared to see John in his armchair, reading the paper, look round to see him and smile. There was no John in the main room. Sherlock's stomach swooped sharply in disappointment and he took a deep breath. Sentiment had made him idiotic, John had obviously not meant his statement _literally_- it had been figurative and here was Sherlock looking like an idiot.

"Sherlock!" John clattered down the stairs from his room, smiling a blinding, happy smile, genuinely glad to see him and Sherlock's heart began to beat again.

Sherlock grabbed him and kissed him, pressing his lips roughly against John's and telling him without words that he had missed him. And he _had_ missed him, more than he had thought he would. He had known John was not there but Sherlock had found himself looking over his shoulder for his blogger, missed John murmuring in his ear to be more polite, not be so snappish. He had missed talking through the case with him and sorely missed his conductor of light, the maker of tea, the person who laughed at his jokes and the only person anywhere who did not think him a freak. It was a surprisingly enormous relief to be back and able to kiss John senseless. An enormous relief to be _allowed_ to kiss John senseless.

* * *

The next few days passed in a pleasant, lust-filled blur to John. He excused himself to his bedroom an embarrassing amount of times but Sherlock did not comment on it, for which John was grateful. If Sherlock was going to have those rules in place that prevented him from touching John, at least he would not shame John for giving into the need to pleasure himself. John wondered if Sherlock, though professing he did not want John to touch him in a sexual way, ever touched _himself_ in such a way? It was obvious, from brief brushes on the couch and against the door and the wall, that Sherlock was aroused by what they were doing. John pleasured himself quite a few times remembering this and imagining Sherlock doing the same.

Despite the brief brushes, Sherlock kept to his rules almost ruthlessly. He accosted John at every opportunity and kissed him with enthusiasm, tasting and relishing John's moans but giving nothing back. He kept his body at a strict distance from John's, making sure the only thing that touched was their lips, face, and hands. Occasionally, Sherlock would grip John's hands, holding onto them for dear life, sometimes down at John's side, sometimes spreading them out to the sides, but never releasing them for a moment. It was then that Sherlock's kisses turned desperate, his breathing heavy, and he would spin away from John abruptly, ending the kiss rudely, and stride away. John was not sure if these kisses were heaven or hell, as they were enough to make his blood pound in his veins, but were always over much too quickly.

* * *

It all came crashing down one rainy day at the end of November. Sherlock was bored, had been for days, and John was doing nothing to alleviate that boredom. He was typing away on his blog, stretched out on the sofa, seemingly oblivious that a time-bomb was about to go off, one labeled 'Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock was pacing, pacing, pacing, like a lion trapped in a cage, his thoughts bouncing around his head with no direction, no way to center them. He felt as if he were going mad and he hated that feeling. Cocaine was a pleasant alternative to this and he was already devising a clever scheme to nip out and procure some (without John being the wiser) when John groaned, stretching his hands above his head, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. Sherlock's head slowly swiveled around to pin John with his venomous stare and John abruptly stopped the motion, clearing his throat.

"Sorry, just…my back was hurting." He turned back to his blog, his ears bright red, and Sherlock remained where he was, staring at John staring at his laptop. Suddenly, his thoughts had taken an entirely new direction and he was imagining kissing John, pressing up against John and feeling the body he tried to hide beneath those hideous jumpers. He bit his lip and, with great effort, turned away. He would not be dictated to by his body, no matter how bored he was.

Except that John looked very cosy, there on the couch. John always liked rainy days in, watching crap telly or spending wasteful time on his laptop, puttering around the flat. Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. He suddenly remembered that John required cuddling and "that sort of thing" from their relationship. It was Sherlock's responsibility to initiate those activities. _Perfect._

He crossed the room and lifted John's legs- John squawked at this- then sat himself down on the sofa, bringing John's legs to rest in his lap. He had seen this position before and he decided that he liked the weight of John's legs over his. That was surprising- equally surprising was John's shocked expression as he goggled at Sherlock as if he had sprouted a second head.

"Wh-what are you doing?" John asked, unable to understand Sherlock's intentions. After days and days of no contact except lips and hands, why was Sherlock doing this?

"I'm cuddling." Came the brief reply and Sherlock continued to face forward. John surveyed him, trying to deduce as he knew Sherlock did- and smirked when he saw the rapidly beating pulse at Sherlock's neck. That may have more to do with irritation at his boredom than me, though, John thought. Only one way to find out.

Smiling, John sat up, braced himself with his hands, and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Sherlock immediately turned to him and their lips met, Sherlock's hands coming up to hold John's head in the position he wanted in order to deepen the kiss. John's laptop slid to the carpet with a small thud but neither man paid any attention to its departure. Sherlock was nipping and licking at John's lips, something he always seemed particularly keen on- not that John was complaining and John moaned softly.

After a few minutes, he could feel his arms shaking to hold himself up, especially now that Sherlock was bearing down on him, putting more strain on his muscles. With a gasp, John's arms gave out and he fell back onto the sofa. Sherlock followed him, never breaking the kiss, and even wiggled up slightly so he was at a better angle to kiss John very thoroughly. John was very much aware of how close he was to Sherlock now. They were pressed together on the confines of the sofa, Sherlock's chest to his, Sherlock's arms on either side of his head, holding the taller man up so he was at the perfect advantage for kissing. John snaked his own arms around Sherlock's back to hold him closer to him, enjoying the feeling of pressing himself against the formerly-bored-but-not-anymore consulting detective.

When Sherlock pulled back for air, John laughed, a carefree, breathless sound. "I haven't snogged this much since I was 16." He looked up at Sherlock who wore a slightly dazed look on his face that John found he liked very much. He loved that Sherlock looked so dazed when they kissed. It made him feel rather powerful and _wanted_.

Sherlock hummed and imagined John at the age of 16. The image had him swooping back down to press his lips to John's again, his tongue snaking out to tangle with his. John fell back into the kiss, pressing Sherlock to him and moaning happily. It took a few minutes for him to realize, through his lust-clouded brain- what Sherlock was doing, but when he did, he was shocked to his core.

Sherlock was pressing trouser clad his hips down, rubbing his hard cock against John's leg. John was not even sure Sherlock was aware of what he was doing but John was not about to stop him. It was the single most erotic act John had ever been involved in and he did not want to do or say anything that might halt it. He remembered Sherlock's rules about "sexual touching" and John had an internal struggle with himself as he moved his lips over Sherlock's jaw and down his neck. Technically, his mind argued, _John_ was not touching Sherlock…_Sherlock_ was touching Sherlock _to_ John.

"_Mmm_, John," Sherlock groaned, his hands digging into the sofa as John continued to suck and lick his way down Sherlock's neck.

"Can I mark you?" John whispered recklessly, unable to keep from expressing this insane wish he had harbored since they had bizarrely agreed to be in a relationship. It was such a feral, base thing to do and it flipped John's switch like nothing else. Sherlock shivered and moaned above him and that was all the permission John needed to latch onto Sherlock's neck and suck and bite, gently at first and then harder as Sherlock began to shake in his arms. He was moaning louder now and his hips were pressing harder and faster against John's leg. Finally, John could control himself no longer and moaned while biting down very hard on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's whole body stiffened as if he had been electrocuted and he gasped. He pulled away from John's mouth with a loud, wet pop and stared down at him with wide eyes and an open, panting mouth. John's heart plummeted.

"What? What did I do?" he asked, almost panicking as Sherlock remained where he was, looking down at him in disbelief and surprise. "Sherlock?"

Finally, Sherlock, whose face was tinged an alarming shade of red, took a shuddering breath. "John…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" he cleared his throat and shakily pulled away, turning abruptly to face away from John on the couch. His entire body radiated tension and shame…and John was perplexed as to what had caused this. He had thought Sherlock had wanted him to bite- maybe he had been wrong?

"Sherlock…what?" John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder but he jerked away, raising a shaking hand to his face and hiding from John. John could see a red mark beginning to form on Sherlock's neck and he suddenly felt sick. That hadn't been what Sherlock had wanted at all. He had misread the signals. "Sherlock…Christ, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I thought you wanted that…I shouldn't have-"

"No, John." Sherlock's voice was low and small. "It wasn't…anything you did. I'm _furious_ at myself."

John allowed the silence to continue, feeling his heartbeat return to normal gradually, and still Sherlock remained facing away from him. Sherlock finally stood up, and began to walk away. John, worried as to what had happened, afraid he had been the reason Sherlock had pulled away, jumped up and grabbed his arm, spinning him around, a question on his lips. Sherlock was refusing to look at him, was staring down at the floor, his face embarrassed and slightly angry. John frowned at him and, before he could stop himself, his eyes fell lower…

There was an obvious wet stain on the front of Sherlock's tailored pants. It was almost enough to make John come just from looking at it. He knew his mouth fell open and he was staring but…it was just so unexpected. Sherlock's face flushed even darker, he jerked away from John, and fled to his bedroom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows! There are now over 50 people following my story and I could not be more grateful to you all! Thanks so much! Reviews are, of course, very much appreciated! Sherlock is having a rather bad reaction to the events in the previous chapter. Don't worry, all will be well shortly! Feeling are really "not his area" and I am afraid he is very confused.**

* * *

Sherlock paced frantically in his room, hands gripping his hair, his heart beating an irregular rhythm in his chest, his mind spinning, unable to grasp a single thought for longer than a second. Emotions, sentiment, _feelings_ were clawing their way in his chest and he felt as if he were suffocating. What had just happened? How had he allowed that to happen? He was master of his transport, had been for twenty plus years. How had he lost control and allowed _that_ to happen? He always lost control when he was with John. Was that the problem? Should he just get rid of John, tell him things were not working?

No, _yes_- Sherlock growled, confused and lost, pulling at his hair and kicking out at a pile of papers that were so old they were yellowed and cracked. They flew into the air and Sherlock stamped on them like a petulant child.

He had changed clothes and now the offending trousers and pants were in a ball in the further corner of his room, after having been hurled there with a violence that had not been warranted. Sherlock had heard John linger in the main room for a few minutes after he had retreated to his room but soon the doctor had slowly made his way upstairs and Sherlock had heard the shower turn on. John was still in there and Sherlock glared at the ceiling as he passed underneath. He knew what John was doing in there- why he was taking a shower at this time of night.

This relationship with John was never going to work.

Sherlock had never understood it- love, sentiment, sexual attraction. He understood it in purely logical terms. When it was present, it made the motive for crimes easier to solve. It was the reason husbands murdered their wives, wives brutally slaughtered their husband's lovers. Sherlock could count the number of times "love" had been a motivating factor in a case. It was unpredictable and unstable. He had been glad to have stayed away from it.

Did he love John? Was that what these feelings were? He was attached to John…felt an…attraction for him. Didn't he? Sherlock shook his head, removing his hands from his hair and curling them into fists at his sides, still stalking round and round, not caring that Mrs. Hudson was probably glaring at him from below for waking her up with all the stomping. She had heard worse.

It was now obvious to Sherlock that having _some sort_ of sentimental attachment for the person you were being intimate with changed the way the act felt. He had feelings for John, ergo kissing him was pleasant, made Sherlock desire John. He had never had a sentimental attachment to his other experiments; therefore he had not felt the same way. It was a heady feeling, kissing John, one that made Sherlock feel as if he were not in control. He hated that feeling.

Was it acceptable to give control to John? No, no, he could not do that- could he? People in love made sacrifices for their loved ones- he had said this to himself before, both in relation to John and himself. Was he in love with John? Was that what this was about?

Sherlock felt as if he were hyperventilating, unable to control his own body's respiratory system, and was wondering if he had used the last brown bags on an experiment when he heard the chime on his phone from the living room. Cracking open his door and glancing out to make sure John was still upstairs- the shower had turned off- Sherlock vaulted over to his phone and quickly scanned the message. Lestrade, case, please hurry.

Yes, he had to get out of the flat. Sherlock clutched at this as a drowning man would a life raft

He did not even think of taking John with him. He finished sending Lestrade a text and then crept into the hallway to retrieve his coat and scarf.

"Sherlock." John was at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock did not turn around but continued winding his scarf around his neck. He heard John come down the stairs behind him, each step making his heart beat faster and faster. He pulled on his gloves, attempting and failing to keep his hands from shaking. He growled in frustration. John cleared his throat.

"Where are you going?" his voice was low and careful.

"Case. Lestrade just texted. Don't wait up." Sherlock finally turned, attempting to keep his face cold and indifferent but he failed horribly. It was intolerable, being unable to control himself the way he normally would.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John's face and voice were worried, scared, and Sherlock glared. It was all his fault, his fault for being so…so…_John_.

John's hair was still wet from the shower and Sherlock watched, entranced, as a bead of water dripped from one end and trickled down John's cheek, to his neck, and disappeared into the top of his shirt. He could imagine leaning forward and licking the path the water had taken, tasting soap and John. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. This, _this_ was what he had meant when he thought it would never work out.

"Wrong? What would be wrong? There's nothing wrong just a case with Lestrade. Routine." Even he could hear the note of panic in his quavering voice.

John looked adorably confused. "Oh. Do you need me to come with you?" he made a move to retrieve his coat.

"No need, I am perfectly fine on my own_. I don't need you, John_."

John frowned, paused. "Sherlock…listen, about tonight. It's ok- what happened-"

"What happened? _What happened_?" Sherlock gave a little maniacal laugh, his voice cracking. John looked very worried now. "How is it _possibly_ ok, John? Look at me!" he thrust his hands forward so John could see how they were shaking. "It is far from _ok_. This should not be happening- how can you not understand this?!"

"Sherlock, you're being irrational." John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm and Sherlock violently jerked away and stalked into the kitchen, the only avenue away from John.

"Sherlock?" John followed, confused at such a reaction but now careful to keep his distance. Sherlock, however, spun around and placed himself very close to John, so close the doctor could feel the vibrations of the younger man's body as he panicked.

"I hate how you make me feel," Sherlock hissed, gritting his teeth, his face angry and close to John's. "I hate it. This isn't going to work."

There, he had said it. Then why was his head screaming at him to take it back, take it back _right now_! No, no, no! Sherlock spun away from John and gripped his hair again. What the fuck did he want?! He needed to _think_!

John visibly flinched at Sherlock's words and felt sick to his stomach. He had thought things with Sherlock were fine, more than fine, especially considering the last few days, the events of tonight. He had expected Sherlock to be embarrassed, yes, but this…? How had he missed this? He shook his head, thoroughly confused.

No, Sherlock had enjoyed it, he had been aroused on more occasions than just tonight. He had even instigated many of their kisses, turning to John before John even turned to him. Something else was wrong. There had to be something else, something John, with his feeble brain, was missing.

"Sherlock-"

"I have a case." Sherlock said abruptly, flying from the kitchen and down the stairs, leaving John, once more, thinking that they _had_ to stop having these sorts of discussions in their kitchen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Here is the new chapter- and I want to thank everyone for following me. I have over 70 followers for this story! I never thought to have 1 so I am extremely gratified- thank you all! I must once again beg for reviews, as I love them and am addicted. **

* * *

The distraction of a case was just what Sherlock needed. He firmly placed everything John-related out of his mind and focused only on what was in front of him- dead female, mid-twenties- and worked the case. Ten hours later, after illegally sneaking into a locked house without police clearance to look for evidence, conducting quick experiments on said evidence at St. Bart's, disguising himself as a homeless man, then chasing the murderer through early morning London streets, Sherlock was being yelled at by Detective Inspector Lestrade. Coming down from the high of the case, however, his mind was turning back to the original case of John Watson, the case that had plagued his mind for weeks.

He was much calmer than he had been earlier, and was able to think about John in purely logical terms. It was always easier to think away from distractions and John was a rather large distraction to Sherlock in this instance. The cab ride back to the flat was quiet and brief. It was still the wee hours of the morning and London had yet to stir from sleep. Sherlock could see grey tingeing the eastern sky, heralding the dawn, and he rested his head on the cool pane of glass, allowing his breath to fug up the window.

Sherlock did not like not being in control, and John Watson made him lose control on a too frequent basis. Logically, that meant that Sherlock should end his fledgling relationship with John, tell him he valued his friendship, and….and what? Would John then move out? Unlikely, since he thrived on the adrenaline only Sherlock could provide him. Would John pine from a distance for Sherlock? Doubtful, also, since John was a rational man. He would move on, find someone else, and likely get over his infatuation with Sherlock. That was the best course of action. It was purely logical.

* * *

Sherlock walked into the flat just as the sun was beginning to rise and saw no sign of John in the red hazed main room of the flat. It was obvious from the impression on the sofa as well as the position of the blankets and cushions that John had spent some time on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to return. That position had been given up in favor of his bed. John was not a young man and his back had surely begun hurting after a few hours in such a position. Sherlock stood staring at the sofa for a few minutes, remembering he and John's heated kisses from the night before, remembering the embarrassing Event that had taken place as well. Loss of control, it was for the best to end this.

Sherlock turned to the kitchen where he knew he had a few feet in the freezer he could begin experimenting on. He could become absorbed in that work until John awoke and then tell him it was over. Sound reasoning. Sherlock did not move. It was many minutes before Sherlock did move and when he did, he moved to the stairs and, almost against his will, slowly and quietly walked upstairs. He paused before John's closed door, and, when he was reassured by the deep, even breathing coming from the other side, carefully opened it.

John had not closed his curtains the night before and the early morning sunlight bathed the room in bright, blinding red light. Sherlock stood in the door and simply looked at John as he slept. He was on his back, his face turned towards the door as if he had been looking at it when he slept, willing Sherlock to step through and take back he words he had carelessly said last night. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and began to think, once more analyzing the case of John Watson.

He wanted John. It was a simple truth- although Sherlock knew things rarely were simple. Sherlock wanted John. He wanted John to always be beside him, thinking him brilliant, calling him amazing, loving him, wanting to be with him and no one else. And all the other John things he did- Sherlock wanted them all. He did not want to share them with anyone else, he didn't even want other people to know about them. He knew that was selfish but Sherlock was selfish enough not to care. He wanted to be able to kiss John whenever he felt like it, be able to cuddle and "those sorts of things" on the sofa and not let it affect him. There was the problem. Sherlock did not want to lose control. It was a part of himself and was not one he felt he could give to John.

His body was transport and Sherlock was master of that transport. It was obvious that John did not repulse him as the others had, so perhaps that meant they had a better chance together. Sherlock's body, when his mind was not in control, obviously found John appealing. Sherlock hated the sensation that he was not in control, not being in control of his own body was particularly galling to him. If he allowed this to continue with John, he would have to be in control at all times.

When his mind _was_ in control, however, Sherlock could not stop thinking of his other experiments, in graphic detail, and anticipating the moment when John became just like them- and what was fun and nice would no longer be so. It would become disgusting and wrong and make Sherlock bitter towards John. However, it stood to reason that Sherlock _was_ master of his transport and his mind. He could will his mind away from those thoughts if he put the effort in- and he could always ask certain things of John to make it easier. No moaning during certain acts, absolutely no noise unless it was strictly necessary would be a good place to start. Showering before such acts was essential to minimize odors that could be very off-putting but could also trigger memories Sherlock would be striving to forget. It would help keep him in control.

Sherlock watched John sleep from his vantage point at the door, enjoying the way the early morning light played through his hair. When John began to stir, Sherlock quietly retreated.

* * *

When John awoke, he felt happy for all of two seconds before the events of the previous night slammed into him, taking his breath away and setting up an ache in his chest that refused to go away. Sherlock, panicking in a way John had never seen before, angrily telling him that he hated the way John made him feel, leaving the flat. John sighed, thinking Sherlock was probably still gone and that he would not see him for a few days. He thought about texting Lestrade and asking if Sherlock had finished the case but dismissed this. He would then be asked probing questions about his and Sherlock's "domestic" and their relationship would come out in the open. John was not even sure they had a relationship after the events of last night. He would prefer to avoid discussions of it.

When he finally managed to make his way downstairs, he was surprised to find Sherlock reclining on the sofa in his thinking pose, eyes closed, and taking no notice of John. His spirits sank. It was to be like that, was it? Ignored? Well, Sherlock had done it before but this time it felt ten times worse. Sighing, John started making breakfast, his ears burning as he continued to think of last night and how things had gone wrong.

"You can touch me," Sherlock called from his position on the couch. "I have a theory that I _may_ be able to tolerate sexual acts with you. This theory needs to be tested."

John dropped the knife he was holding and only a quick move on his part spared his foot from being impaled. He slowly turned to walk into the main room to find Sherlock still in his thinking pose, eyes closed. John's eyes dropped to Sherlock's neck where a very visibly red mark had formed. His insides twisted remembering this.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in irritation, though he still refused to look at John, instead inspecting the ceiling. "I. Have. A. Theory. I. May. Be. Able. To. Tolerate. Sexual. Acts. With. You. We need to test this."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. Thanks, but no, Sherlock. I don't want you _tolerating_ me touching you. Just so we're clear- is that what you've been doing this whole time?" John knew his face was burning and he felt anger churning in his gut, that and shame. He had been such an idiot thinking that Sherlock Holmes had actually been enjoying snogging with him. Then what was last night, a voice asked in his ear.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his stupidity and John clenched his jaw. "I _detest_ not being in control, John. I strive to be in control of my body at all times, you know that about me. You know how I feel about that. You make me lose control, and I hate it. I don't want that to happen anymore. Is that clear?"

John shook his head. "I make you lose control? How exactly did you get that? What are you really saying?" He was very confused and hated feeling as if he were mentally running to keep up with Sherlock, especially on this subject.

"I have a theory that needs testing. Do try and keep up, John." Definitely irritation in his voice now and it was grating on John's already overstretched nerves. "I do not want to lose control with you, however I do…want to engage in sexual acts with you. I therefore have a theory that you will perform a sexual act on me. We will see how I respond to you touching me. I may not be able to tolerate it, in which case I will ask you to stop and this experiment will end. _Immediately_. I do have a few rules to make this bearable and you have to agree to them before we can progress further."

"You…you do want to have sex with me?" John asked, knowing he was asking Sherlock to repeat himself but unable to believe what the other man was saying. "I don't…I don't know, disgust you or anything?"

"No, John. I detest not being in control. I do not detest you." Came the quiet reply and Sherlock's eyes finally fell on him, intelligent and deducing but there was also something very vulnerable in his gaze that left John guessing.

John sank weakly into his armchair, his knees no longer able to hold him up with relief. Ok, Sherlock was not disgusted by him. Suddenly everything seemed so much better. This could still work out. Their relationship could still have a shot.

"Ok, well...glad that is squared away. After last night, I have to tell you..." John shook his head. "What are your rules? I'm assuming your 'no sexual touching' rule is out the window?"

Sherlock did not smile but told John the few rules he had thought up that morning as he watched him sleep. They did not seem impossible but John frowned and looked wary.

"Ok, right, fine." John puffed out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. He licked his lips and Sherlock's eyes dropped to his lips and lingered in order to watch this fascinating movement. "It's…it's a lot to ask, Sherlock-"

"If I am asking too much of you, you do not have to agree, John." Sherlock said harshly, jumping up from the sofa and starting to walk past John. John sprang up as well and gripped his arm, spinning him around and pressing a kiss to his lips. Sherlock remained rigid, his hands balled into fists at his side, and merely let John kiss him. John pulled away and caressed his cheek.

"You're an idiot. You ask me to do mad and crazy things for you every day. I always agree. Why would you not think I would agree to anything else you asked me? I'm in love with you, you mad genius."

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at John, his expression fearful and wary but straightforward. "I think I love you too, John."


	11. Chapter 11

**Here is the new chapter to Invading Afghanistan. Herein the going gets a little rocky, folks, but all will be made well in the next chapter. I should have the next chapter, Chapter 12, up sometime tonight. After Chapter 12, I only see myself writing a brief epilogue. The end is near. I must say, I get very sad when it comes to endings...**_  
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**Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed! You all say such lovely things it makes me positively giddy.**

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_"You're an idiot. You ask me to do mad and crazy things for you every day. I always agree. Why would you not think I would agree to anything else you asked me? I'm in love with you, you mad genius."_

_Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at John, his expression fearful and wary but straightforward. "I think I love you too, John."_

John had lost count of the number of times people had told him to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, he was not able to have or keep friends, he was a danger to everyone around him, he was a violent psychopath, etc, etc. John had lost count, but he was sure Sherlock could tell you the exact number, exactly who had said what, how many times such a statement had been uttered and in what context. John, however, chose to ignore what everyone else said about Sherlock- he had from the start.

John was sure everyone was waiting for the moment he would leave Sherlock for good. John was convinced that Sherlock was waiting for this as well. The moment he went too far with an experiment, said the wrong thing, acted in the wrong way, made one too many demands- and John would be gone, would have had enough. Their friendship, their new relationship, would be over. John wanted to prove everyone wrong, and he wanted to prove Sherlock wrong especially. Sherlock was worthy of friendship, of love- just as he was. He didn't need to change, he didn't need to be anything other than what he was. John loved him.

John's patience wasn't endless, and he had gotten angry with Sherlock more times than he could count (Sherlock knew the exact number- it was 108) and yelled and stormed about. He had refused to speak to Sherlock, go out on cases with him (though that number was very low), even refused to come back to the flat for a few days. But John always came back, always forgave Sherlock, always remained his friend and loved him.

John disliked Sherlock's rules regarding their relationship, regarding their sexual relationship. He disliked the rules in the same way he disliked Sherlock's experiments in the kitchen that usually resulted in the microwave blowing up, body matter strewn about where food was prepared, mess and noise, and the always present danger that Sherlock would main himself in some ghastly way. John disliked Sherlock's caustic comments about his clothes, his blog, his alcoholic sister, his job at the surgery. For some reason, despite all the things John said he disliked, he loved Sherlock _because_ of these.

No one could make John laugh the way Sherlock could. No one could make the blood pound in his veins, whether it was from chasing criminals through alleyways, with nothing more than a look, or snogging on the sofa. No one could be so endlessly fascinating, mysterious, vulnerable, shy, straightforward, and brilliant. There were many things John loved about Sherlock. So yes, it was hard. Yes, his patience and resolve were tested on an almost daily basis. But Sherlock made it worthwhile. John was never bored. He had known, that night in Miranda's flat, that loving Sherlock would be the hardest thing he had ever done- he had known that and he had still gone for it. He did not regret it. He did not think he ever would.

John could not help but think they were going about sex all the wrong way. It just seemed so odd to prescribe rules to the acts and be doing it in such a way. He had not expected Sherlock to change his mind about sex. John had been willing, honestly willing, to give up sex in order to be in a relationship with Sherlock. Sex, after all, was well and good, increased the level of intimacy in a relationship, but what John had with Sherlock was already special. They already had a connection, a strong bond, and sex between them would be amazing, John was sure, but he already loved Sherlock deeply. Anything more than that was extra.

John knew things would only get better between him and Sherlock. And he was willing to wait, to try, to follow where Sherlock led- not because he was a coward or weak. Because his aim was to win Sherlock's heart, utterly and completely, and prove to the "high functioning sociopath" that he was worthy of being loved, and John would do whatever it took to win.

* * *

So when Sherlock confessed, in an adorably shy way, that he thought he was in love with John, John did not breathe for almost a full minute, and simply stared at Sherlock, unable to believe his ears. Victories, sometimes, are not full-blown loud affairs. Sometimes they are as quiet as a damaged "sociopath" whispering that he loves you.

He leaned back in and pressed kisses to Sherlock's cheeks, his chin, his jaw, even the tip of his nose before finally settling at his mouth and gently caressing his lips with his own. Sherlock remained passive, allowing John to kiss him but not participating, enjoying feeling John expressing his love in this way. And that was what he was doing- expressing how much he loved Sherlock, how much those little words meant to him. Sherlock huffed out a sigh and closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel and revel in the sensations. When John finally pulled away, Sherlock smiled, his expression a little dazed and John grinned.

"What would you like me to do to you for this experiment?" John asked, his voice low and excited. The idea of actually being allowed to touch Sherlock as he had been dreaming of ever since he realized he was in love with the detective was too much to contain. After Sherlock's initial rules regarding sexual touching, John had thought that was a dream he would never attain. Now, he could feel himself getting hard, despite remembering Sherlock's new rules.

Sherlock swallowed and looked suddenly very nervous. John smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. This time, Sherlock responded, tentatively and shyly. John happily took the lead, careful not to press him too much, and deepened the kiss, tilting Sherlock's head to the side and running his tongue along the seam of Sherlock's closed lips. They parted with a sigh and John took the opportunity to gently nibble first the bottom then the plump top lip.

"How about I give you a blowjob?" It was a recklessly asked question but it was another of John's secret fantasies he wanted to fulfill. The convulsive shudder that wracked Sherlock's body seemed promising.

Sherlock nodded, steeling himself for the onslaught and allowed John to steer him around and push him into his armchair. John knelt at his feet and leaned up, kissing him, gently, slowly, with barely any pressure and Sherlock allowed himself to relax. It was pleasurable as John unhurriedly removed Sherlock's trousers and pants, kissing each patch of skin as he revealed it, however when Sherlock was completely naked from the waist down under John's rough, calloused hands, he closed his eyes. He began to think of something soothing, a new piece he had learned for his violin and he had not quite gotten it right yet. He began running through the piece, imagining himself playing it.

As soon as John's mouth closed around him, Sherlock's mind was assaulted with memories of his two experiments with this, the feeling of clammy hands on his thighs, the hot pants against his groin, the trail of saliva that had almost made him retch to feel and even worse to see. The horrible choking feeling as he reciprocated. He instantly slammed a mental door on these images and instead began to think of the experiment with the human feet Molly had given him to work on. It effectively took his mind away from those memories and he gradually allowed himself to relax into the sensations John was evoking in his body.

Sherlock kept his eyes firmly closed, his lips clamped tightly together as if he were enduring some great hardship. John could almost hear the gears turning in his head and wondered what he was doing. He did not seem to be analyzing or deducing. He seemed to be…distracting himself? From what? Was John's touch that unbearable? If it had not been for the way Sherlock usually responded to John's kisses, the event from the other night, and Sherlock's very obvious and hard to ignore erection that was currently in his mouth, John would have been very put down indeed.

As it was, he was puzzled, but he followed what Sherlock had told him and remembered what Miranda had instructed him to do- and enjoyed himself. His aim was to give Sherlock as much pleasure as possible and, even though he had never done this before, he had been the recipient before. It was surely not that hard. He had looked up tips on the internet once- purely for research purposes- and felt adequately prepared. John hollowed his cheeks and sucked firmly.

Sherlock's hips would shakily rise then be firmly placed back on the sofa. His hands were fisted, the pulse at his neck beating wildly, sweat beading at his forehead and upper lip. He huffed a few times when John did some trick he had learned from the internet and it took all of John's willpower not to moan in delight at what he was doing to Sherlock, small victories that were making him rock hard. He also refrained from touching himself as he was sure this would put Sherlock off the experience, though this had not been one of Sherlock's new rules.

Finally, Sherlock's entire body stiffened and, without warning, he began to come in thick, sharp bursts in John's mouth. John choked, and tried to swallow but was rather ineffective. He quickly decided not to feel badly since it was only his first time doing this. He also felt that a little warning on Sherlock's part would have been nice and decided to mention that to him as soon as possible.

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he breathed a sigh that seemed too close to relief, relief that was not orgasm centered, for John.

"That was tolerable." He sounded much too surprised and John could only stare, unsure if he should be offended or gratified.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks again to everyone who had reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. This is almost it- later tonight I will post the Epilogue and that will be the end of this ****fic. PLEASE read and review. Any mistakes in this chapter are all my own. :) Enjoy.**

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Sherlock could see John's pupils blown wide in lust and knew what he wanted. Sherlock dreaded reciprocating. He knew that was what good, considerate lovers did but for a moment he seriously thought about telling John no and letting him sort himself out. He didn't care if that made him selfish, if that angered John. It had been hard enough distracting his mind during fellatio, concentrating only on the pleasure John's mouth was evoking and thinking of nothing else. He knew it would be worse when he was reciprocating. He vividly remembered choking, gagging, being forced by a hard hand at the back of his head to keep going. Sherlock looked away from John and almost gagged remembering.

Like a gift from heaven, if Sherlock believed in such things, his phone began to ring and Sherlock bounded up, knocking John backwards a bit and grabbed it. Lestrade. Case. _Out of the flat_. Sherlock felt that it was wrong for his knees to literally go weak in relief but he did not care as he grabbed his pants and trousers and quickly told John about their new case.

John had shakily risen to his feet in front of the armchair and looked very dazed and confused. He shook his head as if to clear it and took several very deep breaths, clearing his throat.

"Right. _Right_, I'll get my coat." He sounded a little bewildered but he followed Sherlock out of the flat and stood awkwardly while Sherlock hailed a cab and quickly texted on his phone.

Once they were in the backseat of the cab, John turned to look out the window and Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, expecting John to pout the rest of the day. Predictable. He was surprised, then, when John's hand crept across the seat and his fingers laced with his, squeezing gently. Sherlock's head whipped back around, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Are you ok?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock, smiling encouragingly. Sherlock's eyes rapidly flew about John's face, deducing at lightning face pace. He didn't seem to be angry or upset, still very much aroused but that was normal, Sherlock supposed. Expected.

"I didn't do anything wrong did I?" John asked, his eyes studying Sherlock's face, frowning as if he were not liking what he was seeing.

Sherlock shook his head, dropping his eyes to their entwined fingers and felt very disconcerted.

* * *

When they finally made it back to the flat, it was after midnight. John had been shot at, Sherlock had been involved in a brawl, and Lestrade was claiming they were going to give him a heart attack one day if they did not get arrested first. They were giggling together as they stumbled up the stairs, giddy at their close calls, high on the adrenaline of a case solved.

"Well, that'll be one for the blog," John chuckled, flinging his jacket at his chair and turning back to look at Sherlock, who was leaning against the door and laughing, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

It was just like hundreds of times before when the two of them had gone out, brushed death and somehow managed to live to blog about it. John felt the desire rise up inside to push Sherlock against the door and kiss him, mark him, dear God, fuck him senseless- and this time John was not pretending he was not gay, he could give in to these urges, at least up to a certain point.

John closed the distance between them and kissed Sherlock, his hands grasping the detective's arms and pressing him back against the door. Now he was allowed and he kissed Sherlock with all he was worth. Sherlock gasped, surprised at the sudden attack, but quickly marshaled a response and earnestly kissed him back, tugging his arms out of John's hold and bringing his hands up to sift through John's hair. He moaned quietly.

John pushed Sherlock's coat from his shoulders and unwound the blue scarf from his neck, discarding it hastily, never breaking the kiss. He was working on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, without a clear plan in mind as to what he would do once he discarded this garment as well, when Sherlock spoke.

"I suppose you…you want reciprocation?" Sherlock murmured, pulling away from John to stare into his eyes. John blinked, his hands stilling on the buttons. His first thought was _Oh, God, YES_! His second thought was- did Sherlock want to do that? Was that allowed in the rules? Sherlock had deduced his first thought though and pulled further away, his lips thinning, all traces of excitement gone.

"We will go to your bedroom." The idea of doing anything sexual in his bedroom made Sherlock's skin crawl. His bedroom was his sanctuary, a safe place, and he did not want reminders of _unpleasantness_ polluting that.

John shook his head, torn and unsure. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock spun around and began climbing the stairs, he had worked up a bit of nerve and was not about to let the opportunity pass. After a brief pause, he heard John curse behind him and followed him up.

They stared at each other once in John's bedroom, Sherlock on the far side of the room, his expression guarded and rather cold and forbidding. John found his desire ebbing as he looked at that face. It could not have been more obvious that Sherlock did not want this, whatever it was he was offering to do for John.

"Look, why don't we just sleep tonight, Sherlock?" he smiled politely, trying to make Sherlock see that he understood. "Let's not…let's not jump into anything major just yet. We don't have to. You…you don't have to do anything you don't want to-"

"Are you taking a shower?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"I…hadn't planned…yeah." Sherlock saw the flash of understanding when John grasped what he meant. "Yeah, I'll go take one right now." John took himself off to the bathroom, blushing slightly.

Sherlock remained standing awkwardly in the corner of the room, looking vacantly at the bed. What would John expect him to do? He took a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. Obviously he would expect the same he had given Sherlock. Sherlock desperately wished he had asked John for something easier like manual stimulation. It had been too tempting, however, when John murmured his suggestion against his mouth for Sherlock to give in. Why had it been so easy to give in?

Sherlock breathed in again and straightened his shoulders. He could do this. He was master of his transport.

When John came back in, already dressed in his pajamas, his hair wet from the shower, Sherlock felt his heart rate increase. Nerves? He tried to catalogue this response but John smiled at him and his heartbeat did kick up then. John always affected him like this. No- he would not panic, he could do this. John obviously saw the expression on his face because his smile became more guarded, wary.

"Sherlock- really. We can just sleep. I don't mind. I feel like I'm forcing you into something…you obviously don't want to do."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock snapped and walked around him to flip the switch and plunge the room into blackness. "Get on the bed now."

He heard John sigh and heard the creak of the bed as John sank down on it. Sherlock tried not to visualize this as he walked over and began methodically undressing John. First the top, then the bottoms, push on chest to make him lay down. Deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

"Sherlock…this should be…fun." John said, his voice hesitant.

Fun? Sherlock could feel the incredulous expression on his face. How could this ever be fun? He shook his head and remained silent.

In the dark, Sherlock trailed his fingertips down John's stomach, feeling the muscles twitch as he passed. When he reached John's hipbones his fingers shook slightly and he was glad that he could not see anything in the darkness. He remembered the way his past experiments had looked, always slightly disgustingly, and Sherlock shuddered before firmly entering his Mind Palace and devising a new experiment involving arms. Time to begin.

He swirled his tongue around the head, then slowly engulfed the length in his mouth. He was still thinking of his latest experiment, a severed arm in the fridge that he was sure John would not like when he found out, that involved freezing it in ice, then allowing it to thaw gradually- John groaned then quickly muffled it and Sherlock heard John's hands fist into the sheets to gain control over himself. He would try and put as much water as he could- John cursed softly and again muffled the noise quickly.

Mentally, Sherlock shook himself and willed himself not to gag, to keep going, to do this for John. He would not have to do this every day, or every week, or, he vowed to himself, every month. Just every once in a while to keep John happy. Sherlock squinted his eyes closed and carried on, his mind firmly fixed on his experiment. Minutes passed in absolute silence, Sherlock absorbed in thinking of his experiment, and everything was going fine until John bucked his hips, completely by accident, but that was all it took to shatter Sherlock's fragile control and he gagged around the penis he held in his mouth.

"Sherlock?" John's worried voice came from above him and he heard John sit up and start to fumble with the light. Sherlock panicked. If he turned on the light it was all over. He could not start again, reign in his mind in a second time, not after he was forced to look. Not that this time had been going quite so well…

"No-John!"

Suddenly, the bright light from the bedside table washed through the room, illuminating the scene, and Sherlock blinked, startled.

There was John Hamish Watson laid out before him in all his naked glory, staring at him with a mixture of concern, love, and a great deal of lust and Sherlock felt his breath go all in one whoosh. He was magnificent. Pale skin, hard muscles roped about his body, smattering of chest hair descending down…down…down. His legs, short but compact, runners legs. His cock- Sherlock felt his own twitch in response- much too long for such a short man, thick and perfect. He had had that in his mouth, he realized belatedly, and suddenly Sherlock very much wanted it back there again.

The feeling startled him. He had never felt that way before- ever. He had never looked at a person's body and lusted, desired to press himself against them, naked and hard, and lick every inch of that person's skin. Now, it was all he could do to keep himself from falling onto John and doing just that. He could feel his breathing speeding up, his cock getting hard again, and a curious fluttering feeling in his stomach.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John's voice was cautious, worried.

Sherlock jerked his up his head up to look at John. It suddenly all crashed over him, missing pieces clicking into place in his mind like parts of a jigsaw puzzle he had been trying to solve for weeks. This was not some random stranger Sherlock had met somewhere, someone who smelt of sweat and bad cologne. This was not someone who was selfish of their pleasure, spurring Sherlock on just so they could reach completion. This was not someone who did not care if Sherlock lived or died, enjoyed himself or was disgusted.

This was _John_. John who had killed a murderous cabbie only the second day of knowing Sherlock because his life was in danger. John who, like a child, put too much jam on his toast, who wore ridiculous jumpers, and loved crap telly. John who shouted at the grotesque parts in the fridge and told him he was amazing. John who _loved him_. John, whom Sherlock could trust with his life- _had_ trusted him with his life- of course he could trust him enough to give him a little control.

John who, if Sherlock decided not to continue, would not pout or get angry but would smile and pull Sherlock into his arms to stroke and hold and kiss him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if Sherlock were some rare, exquisite entity worthy of such love and adoration. Then tomorrow, John would call into the surgery and follow him on a case, risk death and bodily injury in order to help him solve it. They would come home, John would make tea and then blog about the case. He would wear a baggy jumper and smile as Sherlock abused his writing.

How could he have ever compared his lovely John to his past experiments? They were nothing alike- would never be anything alike. How had he not seen this before? How?! Sherlock always missed something, missed a vital clue on which a case would hinge. He had missed this. He had not been snogging a stranger- it had been _John_. That made all the difference.

"Sherlock? Are you ok?" John's eyes were worried and he started to get up, to come to Sherlock, but Sherlock was having none of that. He launched himself at John, catching him in the chest, and falling with him back down to the bed, his lips finding John's and kissing him as if his very life depended on it.

It was so delectable it had to be some sort of sin. Sherlock could feel John's naked body beneath his own and he called himself 100 different types of an idiot- why was he wearing clothes? He raised up, never breaking the kiss, and began tearing at his shirt. He managed to get it off- the brief break in kissing as the garment sailed over his head was horrible- and throw it away and lowered himself onto John's chest. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head at the sensation of his bare chest against John's. It was too perfect.

"I want to do things to you, and _god_, I want you to do things to me. Do that thing you did earlier except this time I'm going to watch the entire time. I promise not to think for even a second." Sherlock was babbling between kissing his way down John's neck, gloriously prickly with stubble, and across his chest, laving the scar at his left shoulder and biting down on the other shoulder to make up for the gentleness. It would never be enough, he would never get enough of John.

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Calm down, just, take it easy!" John's hands gripped his face and brought him up to stare into his eyes. "What is wrong? I thought none of this was what you wanted. Why- why are you doing this?" he was breathing heavily and Sherlock could feel John's arousal, hot and heavy, pressed against him. He ground down on it, eliciting a stifled moan from John.

"You're John." Sherlock said simply, bringing his own hands up to cup John's face. "I love you. I got it wrong before, thinking you would be like the others. But you're no one else but my John."

"I love you," John smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

"_I know_," Sherlock breathed, in awe of the fact. It was a _fact_. Nerve impulses to and from the brain travel as fast as 170 miles per hour- and John Hamish Watson was in love with him. "God, _I want you_."

John moaned then quickly bit his lip but Sherlock kissed him, sucking the bitten lip into his mouth and biting it harder.

"I want to know exactly how your moans sound when I kiss you, the different pitch they take on when you are close to orgasm versus when you are orgasming. I want to make you scream and gasp and yell, moan and groan. I want to know what you sound like when I take you in my mouth and suck you. I want to map out every inch of your body so I know every freckle, every imperfection, so I can be blind and know everything about you."

Sherlock could feel himself shaking, wanting, lusting, desiring, and these were such new and unexpected sensations he laughed and stared down at John who was still looking a bit confused but incredibly turned on.

"Sherlock…Sh-Sherlock! Are you sure? _Please_, listen! I want to make sure you're _absolutely_ sure-"

"I've never been surer of anything in my life." Sherlock said, solemnly and that was all John needed to grab Sherlock and kiss him clutching him to him and holding nothing back and not worrying about any more strange rules. Sherlock was responding, pressing himself against John and whispering, between kisses, all the very sinful things he _wanted_ to do to John. He then went on to show John exactly what he was talking about, and prove to him just how much he desired these things.

Later, wrapped in Sherlock's long limbs, stroking the detective's hair while he slept, John thought that he would have waited forever to experience this. Luckily, he hadn't had to. He smiled in the darkness and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's curly head.


	13. Epilogue

Sherlock snuck up behind John as he was preparing toast in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around the short doctor, holding onto fistfuls of John's jumper. He felt John stiffen in surprise, then the shorter man sighed and leaned back into him and Sherlock grinned victoriously, moving to kiss the side of John's neck. John's head lolled back against Sherlock's chest and his eyes fluttered closed, allowing Sherlock to have his wicked way with him. When John finally turned around and their lips met, Sherlock felt sure that he could think of nothing better. He briefly thought about hoisting John up to sit on the counter but decided John would get angry instead of aroused.

"Bedroom?" Sherlock murmured against John's lips and was rewarded with a full body shiver. Thinking he had won, he began to back away, pulling John with him.

"You cannot even begin to imagine all the wicked things I will do to you once we get there," John whispered, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's and this time it was Sherlock's turn to shiver.

"I know about what's in the freezer." John added darkly.

"I love you." Sherlock said quickly, and John chuckled.

"That won't save you now, my love."

John began stalking towards him and Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed backwards towards his bedroom by his lover, a delighted smile tugging at his lips.

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**THANK YOU ALL! I am so sad this fic is ending but it would not have even happened if it were not for the many people who reviewed and encouraged me. Thank you! Thank you for favoriting and following- I am beyond elated at the response this fic has garnered from everyone. *happy tears* **

**There is a review box just below...PLEASE review this fic and let me know what you thought :)  
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